


to the youth who bear our mistakes

by redqueenequilibrium



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Character Development, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Faerghus (Fire Emblem), Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redqueenequilibrium/pseuds/redqueenequilibrium
Summary: Felix takes the blow for Dimitri at Gronder.  Intent with his blade, and swift with his feet, he eliminates the threat, and though he gives his body, he stubbornly holds on, just barely enough, to his life.As Felix fights to survive and recover, Rodrigue grapples with the turmoil of having to watch a son bleed out before him in the name of the crown, and struggles with the dawning realization of what his devotion to Faerghus’ codes of chivalry have cost himself and his family.  In doing so, he learns that there may be worth in re-examining the codes that govern the customs of his Kingdom, and realizes that what this last class of Blue Lions and their professor are fighting for may be more than simply the survival of their homeland.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	1. gronder

It happens so suddenly.

For a girl so small, she’s quick. Driven, perhaps, by something greater than herself.

With Dimitri so distracted by the possibility of taking down the Emperor as she retreats, and Rodrigue himself too preoccupied trying to rein him back, to retreat with the army to the Bridge of Myrddin in the aftermath of the three-way battle, she slips through the chaos easily. When she finds her chance, the girl lunges like a snake, her borrowed sword flashing as she shrieks a battle cry.

“Your Highness!” Rodrigue cries, but he’s too late. Her blade has already caught Dimitri by surprise, and he staggers, wounded by the bite of it in his side, falling to his knees at her mercy.

“You...!” he chokes out in shock, but he doesn’t even have the chance to retaliate. The flat of her sword falls against his shoulder. From where she stands behind him, the blade is close enough to Dimitri’s neck to keep him at her mercy and threaten everyone else to stay back. Her grip is practiced, but her movements are careless, Rodrigue can’t help but observe. Someone has taught her how to hold a sword, but not drilled her enough in swinging it to ensure precision in her movements, care for her blade. A dangerous situation, made more so by her inexperience.

“Have I caught you off guard, Your Highness?” she asks with a sneer, mocking, shrill. Her grip tightens on her weapon, shakes with the force of her rage.

Dimitri grits his teeth, clutching at his side. He looks surprised, but not angry. No, Rodrigue would say His Highness looks haunted, if anything, to be betrayed by someone so unassuming. So young. Someone he allowed to join their side.

She can’t be older than sixteen winters. Her anger only makes her look younger still.

Rodrigue clenches a fist. Letting her join the army was a mistake. He’d known that. They all had, after they’d taken the bridge from imperial hands. In the end, he hadn’t disputed His Highness’ decision. War orphans beg for work, for food, all the time. She’d been so unassuming, willing to do any menial task to join their army. With Dimitri being like he was, Rodrigue had to choose wisely regarding which decisions to object so as not to needlessly provoke his temper. How could any of them known she could have been so dangerous?

He doesn’t even know her name.

“Aww, does it hurt?” she mocks, her eyes wide with her anger, her mouth twisted in ugly spitting shapes, “I bet it hurts real bad, doesn’t it? But it’s _nothing_ compared to what my brother felt!” she shrieks, leaning forward, pushing her knee into Dimitris’ back where he kneels, “You will _never_ be forgiven, you know, I will _never forgive you_!”

“You...” Dimitri tries to speak, “You must be-”

“You filthy monster!” she shouts. It’s clear she has no intentions of listening. No desire to negotiate. Her resolve has already been set, her plans in motion. Nothing Dimitri says will stay her hand. She has to be stopped, and they need to do it now. She pulls her blade back, “It’s time to DIE!” she screams.

Her grip is two-handed and she steps back, winding up to stab.

Rodrigue moves to intercept, but there’s a flash of movement to his right: a darting fleet-footed lunge, whipping past him in a blur of Fraldarius teal and blue, shoving Dimitri to the ground.

“Dimitri!”

The girl screams. It’s a cry of anger. Anguish. Agony.

She hits the ground with a thump. “Brother,” she chokes out weakly, as she bleeds out into the charred dirt, “Help...” she whimpers, as she dies.

Felix stands over her corpse, looking down, his back to the rest of them. His blade is coated in blood. His strike has cut her open from shoulder to hip: a brutal blow, but it had to be done.

The tension flows out from Rodrigue’s body in a rush.

Despite everything Felix has said these last few moons - his sniping at His Highness’ behaviour, his disdain every time a decision was made for the army to follow his reckless decisions - he still came to his prince’s aid, his sword at the ready when Dimitri was in danger. The flood of pride at his son’s actions is dizzying, combined with the relief at what he’s prevented. In the end, when it counted, Felix made the right decision. Their prince yet lives. Faerghus will still, one day, see her King.

He hasn’t broken his promise.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue says in relief, reaching out to heal Dimitri as he pushes himself up.

“No,” Dimitri says suddenly, and Rodrigue frowns as Dimitri shakes, struggling up on his knees, twisting to look behind them, towards Felix, “ _No_!”

Rodrigue turns.

Felix stumbles, his sword slipping from his grasp. Rodrigue freezes, the breath stolen from his lungs, leaving only ice in his chest, and he can do naught but watch as Felix staggers backwards, his leg folding under him as he falls, hitting the earth on his back with a choked gasp.

Dimitri lurches up and staggers as well, hampered by his own wound, falling to Felix’s side in an ungraceful heap of armour and fur. He reaches out - to touch him, hold him - and flinches back when Felix bites back a cry at the movement, spits out a choked command of, “Don’t-”, bringing a shaking hand up against his side.

The girl’s sword struck true after all. Only she hit the wrong target.

To save Dimitri’s life, Felix had cut her down, and blocked her strike with his own body. Her blade is embedded deep, a damning blow through his torso, slightly off center, just under the left side of his ribcage.

Rodrigue stares, frozen, unable to look away from the blade, the wound it has made, the spreading stain of crimson. She couldn’t have. She shouldn’t have been _able_. She could barely swing a blade, much less stab with it. Such a clumsy, two-handed grip on such a light weapon. Rodrigue has seen Felix fend off stronger, far more precise stabs, from expert, practiced swordsmen, retaliating with nary a scratch.

How did this happen?

“Felix,” Dimitri cries, leaning over him where he lies, his hands hovering uselessly over the wound, around the blade, unsure of what he should do, “Felix, _no_.”

Of course, Rodrigue realizes. In any other circumstance, Felix would have dodged. But here, he didn’t, because if he had...

“Rodrigue!” Dimitri yells, a desperate plea. A cry for help.

Rodrigue snaps out of his stupor, rushing over. There’s yelling all around them, cries to call for healers, people moving, running, yelling orders.

From somewhere nearby, the Professor arrives, her hurried steps coming to a stop, her widened eyes bearing witness to this awful tableau. Her mouth is set in a grim line, the Sword of the Creator clutched tight in her hand. The sword flashes, a red light flaring briefly. It seems to grow ever brighter, the promise of its divine power making itself known again. Rodrigue isn’t sure what a sword, even such a divine one, can do to help. The threat has already been killed.

“I’m here,” Rodrigue murmurs faintly when he reaches Felix’s side, falling to his knees beside his wounded son, “I’m here,” he says to Dimitri, to Felix, to both of them; a quiet reassurance to the boys he’s raised and cared for.

He has to be strong. He’s the only one here who can heal, who is proficient enough in faith, who Dimitri is looking to. Who _Felix_ is looking to. Right now, he’s the only one who can help Felix. He has to do something.

“Why, Felix?” Dimitri sobs. He hasn’t cried, not once since the day they’d found him - if what the Professor says is true - and yet now with this, he’s brought low with his tears, his sorrows emerging at last, his anger finally pushed aside, “You said,” he weeps, “You wouldn’t... I... Why did you do this? This was my punishment to bear!”

“Shut up!” Felix snarls back at him, snapping his teeth, his words are sharp but laboured, “Idiot... boar. This is... war. Not everything... is about _you_.” As soon as he says the words, they seem to take what strength he has with them, and he shudders with a groan, head tilting back, brow furrowed, gaze drifting past Dimitri to wander to the sky before he seems to catch himself, snapping his focus back to the prince’s face.

Rodrigue has to do _something_.

He looks down.

Felix is shaking where he lies, one hand clasped weakly around the blade in his gut, the other limp by his side. He’s taking tremoring, shuddering breaths: quick, harsh, shallow - a bad sign. His teeth are grit, in pain, discomfort, and though he’s trying hard - _so hard -_ to be strong, to endure it, every few breaths he flinches and whimpers in pain.

Each time he does it is a heavy blow against his father’s shaking heart.

Rodrigue steels himself, biting his lip, pushing past his panic as Felix looks up at him. His eyes are wet, wide, lost. He opens his mouth to say something to his father, but no words come. Rodrigue shakes his head, trying to reassure him, pressing his hand down against Felix’s wound, careful not to press too hard with the sword still in his flesh, and calls on his faith,

Felix _screams_.

Rodrigue’s hand jerks back from Felix’s body. The healing spell fizzles out suddenly, not even half of what it’s capable of having taken effect. Concentration broken. A wasted cast.

“Felix?! What’s wrong?” Dimitri asks, panicked, “Rodrigue, what-”

“No, I,” Rodrigue stammers, his heart hammering frantically, rhythm skipping ever faster with panic. He tries again, attempts to recall the correct formulations, conjure the glyphs in the arrangements he needs. The glow of white magic flickers, a faltering glow, before it, too, fades, barely holding together.

“Rodrigue?” Dimitri asks, tremulous.

He can do this. Healing is the first spell, the _fundamental_ spell in the study of white magic. He knows the sigils, the glyphs, the arrangement of them, the formulas and how to construct them to boost their power, their potency, their capacity to repair. He’s mastered far more difficult white magic - the strongest spells in the Holy Knight’s arsenal. He can _do_ this, he _knows_ he can.

Felix makes a choked off noise. Rodrigue meets his eyes. They’re honey-brown, like his mother’s - her fond gaze had been warm, a balance for Rodrigue’s own Fraldarius blues. Now, on his son’s face, that gaze is wide-eyed, wet and going glassy with fear - he’s never seen Felix look so _scared_ in his life. He’s so pale, lying there. All men of Fraldarius are, in some way, but not like this, _never_ like this. The stain of red is spreading through the fabric of his coat, bleeding into the fur lining of his cloak under him.

He can’t keep losing blood like this. If he does...

Rodrigue grits his teeth. He knows what he is capable of. He should be able to do _something_ , cast _something._

But.

Faced with Felix - his youngest, his sharp tongued warrior, his late wife’s sweet little boy - bleeding out under his hands, he struggles to conjure, to pull forth, to even _remember_ every healing spell he’s ever known, every restorative glyph he’s ever mastered as a Holy Knight of Faerghus.

He’s the _Shield of Faerghus,_ the foremost Holy Knight of his generation.

Why can’t he heal his own _son_?

“Move!” someone yells. A grey-armoured figure shoves him aside, usurping his place by Felix’s side, pressing a hand against Felix’s head, cradling his cheek, the other hand aglow with the soothing green of _Heal,_ pressing down against the blade, the wound around it.

Felix makes a ragged moan of pain as the magic takes hold, a stuttered panicked breath.

Rodrigue stumbles aside, gaze locked on the hand healing his son.

It’s a rudimentary spell, a desperate cast by somebody whose focus isn’t white magic. Even if Rodrigue couldn’t tell the caliber of spell by seeing it, he can tell by the gauntleted hand casting it. It’s not a healer’s hand.

It’s still more than anything Rodrigue has managed.

Somewhere nearby, a horse whinnies, he can hear the stomp of its hooves as it settles, riderless, nearby. Sylvain must have ridden as swift as the wind, to make it here so quick.

“Hey buddy,” the Gautier heir babbles, hovering over Felix’s supine form, his words frantic, even as his voice holds steady, the spell in his hand aglow as it works, “Hey, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“Sylv-” Felix chokes out with a shudder, lips flecked with blood.

“Hey, hey,” Sylvain soothes, even as the spell in his hand burns out, too weak to cover the severity of the wound. He presses harder and casts again, and Felix tenses, shutting his eyes, gritting his teeth with a pained grunt, “Don’t try to talk, alright?” Sylvain says, “Mercedes is on her way. Annette too, you just gotta stay with me, buddy,”

A shadow falls over them, passing quickly and meeting the earth nearby. Rodrigue looks up from where he’s sprawled to see Ingrid leap off her pegasus, rushing over from where its landed. “What happened?” she asks, as she reaches the Professor’s side, and when her gaze slides over to where Dimitri is hunched over, where Sylvain is bent over, where Felix is lying, she pales so suddenly, looking so horrified, Rodrigue is half convinced she’ll fall into a dead faint. “Felix! Oh, Goddess!” she swears, “Felix, _no_!”

She makes to rush to his side, but the Professor pulls her back. Ingrid turns on her, looking furious, but the calm but grim look on Byleth’s face keeps her in place, “Ingrid,” she says, her voice gentle but firm, “Give them space.”

Ingrid’s lip wobbles, her eyes are rapidly filling with tears, she opens her mouth to argue.

“Felix is hurt, but he’s still alive,” Byleth says to her, correcting any misconceptions before they can be voiced, “You’re the fastest person here, with your pegasus. I need you to make sure Mercedes and Annette can get here quickly. They’re on their way, but they’re on foot. Can you do that for me?”

All at once, Ingrid’s brow creases in determination, and she blinks her tears away. Her despair is quickly displaced by the knowledge that she has something to do, that she can make a difference to help, knowing Felix is still alive, “I... yes. Yes, I can do that,” she says, with a nod. Rodrigue cannot help but be impressed with her resolve.

“Then go,” Byleth says, releasing her arm, and Ingrid does, taking off in a sprint, whistling to grab her mount’s attention again and swinging up into the saddle as it moves towards her, flapping its great wings as soon as she’s seated and taking off into the sky.

The professor doesn’t watch her go. She turns back to the scene, brow furrowed.

Absently, Rodrigue thinks that the Professor’s thinking is shrewd. She knows her students so well. In such a dire situation, knowing Ingrid cares so greatly for her friends that she would react poorly knowing there was little she could do, she gave her a task and sent her off, to prevent her from drowning in despair. At the same time, she’s kept a volatile emotional factor from complicating the situation further, to give Sylvain the space he needs to focus, prevent agitating Felix while he works.

She really is a remarkable tactician.

The glow from the Sword of the Creator is still present, having spread through the blade, but it’s muted, pulsing ambiently, as if waiting. For what? There’s nothing a sword can do that would help. Rodrigue looks up at the Professor and sees her expression has flattened from grim upset to a sudden calculating blankness, but she’s not looking at Felix.

She’s looking at Dimitri.

At Felix’s side, the prince continues to shake his head, hunched in on himself. He’s crying still, tears falling freely as he pleads. “You can’t die, Felix. Not like this!” he cries, leaning over him from the other side, “You said you never would, not for me, and now... you...”

Sylvain’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t acknowledge Dimitri, focusing on keeping the glow of a _Heal_ in his hand, casting again every time the spell fades, unable to do much more than keep Felix’s wound from getting worse. At best, he’s keeping it in stasis. It won’t do much for the blood being lost.

Rodrigue knows he should be helping. If he can understand the spell he is seeing, analyze it to know what it’s failing to do, at the _least_ he should be able to cast _his own_. He can manage a _Recover_ , can’t he? Buy Felix the precious minutes he needs before a dedicated healer arrives. He places a hand on Felix’s leg.

His hand shakes. He can’t feel his fingers, much less manage the flow of magic he needs to cast. He has the capacity, the energy - he knows, he’d been using mostly his lance in the battle, not his spells - but his magic won’t obey him.

Why did Felix take the blow? Why didn’t he parry, at least? Surely, the girl couldn’t have been good enough with a blade to manage beyond a single stab?

“Why, Felix?” Dimitri wails, speaking more to himself than anyone present, “Father... Stepmother... Glenn... They all died and left me behind, but you--”

“Not... dead yet... boar,” Felix interrupts, struggling to force the air out his mouth to carry his words, “ ‘m not... gonna...” he trails off, his words lost in his quickened breaths, trying to keep the air in his lungs.

“Are you going to haunt me too, Felix?” Dimitri asks, morosely, “Will you join the ghosts that follow me, shadow my every move?” he shakes his head, “This is my fault...” he sobs, “I’m... _I’ve_ killed you, this sword, I ... I might as well have been the one to wield the blade!”

Felix’s arm moves in a flash, his hand fisting in Dimitri’s fur cloak, yanking him down in a sudden burst of strength, fury painted on his pale face, “Not... dying for you... idiot...” he snarls, teeth stained in blood, “Not gonna... haunt...” he shudders, falling back again, short of breath, his grip slipping free to release the prince from his hold.

Sylvain moves quickly, easing Felix back before his hand presses back against the wound, against the blade still in his flesh, his palm alighting with another spell. With how many he’s cast, Rodrigue thinks he must be fueled purely by determination, his stubborn refusal to let Felix die. “Felix, don’t talk okay?” Sylvain orders, gently, “You need to stay still. You gotta...” he falters, his voice shaking for the first time since he arrived, rushing onto the scene to take charge where Rodrigue failed to, “My magic isn’t strong enough if you move the wrong way, buddy, I need you not to talk.”

Felix wheezes but relents, slowing his breaths, closing his eyes to focus, trying to breathe deep, catching his breath as he lies on the charred grass and bleeds. His left hand moves, shaking as he rests it on Sylvain’s, grasping at his healing hand.

“I’m so sorry,” Dimitri continues to cry, babbling words, so caught up in his grief. “I _know_ , Glenn.” he says suddenly, and Felix’s eyes snap open as he tenses, his breath hitching at the movement, and Sylvain curses and casts again to manage it. Rodrigue’s head turns in a jerky movement, staring wide eyed at the prince.

Dimitri isn’t looking at either of them or at Sylvain. Instead, he’s staring at some space to his side, by Felix’s head, just past him.

There’s nobody there.

Rodrigue takes a shuddering breath. He knew Dimitri had been seeing ghosts - imagined shades of the people he’d loved who had died - he’d said as much, and the tales had been corroborated by many who had seen him in the throes of his madness, rambling to people only he could see in the dark of Garreg Mach’s ruined cathedral. But to hear His Highness address his dead son by name as his living one lies bleeding before him...

He can’t bear to imagine what Dimitri might be seeing.

“I _know_ this is _my fault,_ ” Dimitri shouts, “I should have been the one to take the blow,” he shakes his head, plaintive, “I never meant for this to happen, Glenn. I know what I’ve said, but I never meant for Felix-”

“Boar..!” Felix chokes out, a noise of outrage, of pain. Even as he struggles for breath, he’s trying to pull Dimitri back from his madness, free from his ghosts.

“For Goddess’ sake, Dimitri!” Sylvain snaps, patience worn down to nothing at last, “Would you _lay off_?! If you’re not going to help, then shut up and _get the hell out of the way_!”

“Sylvain,” Rodrigue says, reflexively. He’s never heard the Gautier heir ever be so short with anyone, much less His Highness.

“Shut it!” Sylvain shouts back. Rodrigue freezes, biting back the instinctive flare of indignity at this lack of respect, when Sylvain’s outrage is directed at him in a flash, “I don’t want to hear from you!”

As quick as he’d snapped at him, Sylvain turns away, all his attentions back on Felix again, his gaze focused on his face, his hand pressed against his wound, his spell flaring back to life to do what he can. Whatever offence Rodrigue had felt at Sylvain’s attitude is quickly eclipsed by a burn of shame. Of course, Sylvain has every right to be upset. Dimitri’s rambling is actively interfering with his work, his concentration, Getting in the way of Felix’s safety and his receptiveness to the healing spell. Hasn’t Rodrigue himself said that Dimitri could do with a firm word, with a scolding, to keep him from skirting too close to reckless abandon?

Why wouldn’t Sylvain have that right? Especially now, with Felix’s life in his hands?

Dimitri falls quiet. In shock, perhaps, at being shouted at by one of his close friends, or perhaps so overwhelmed by what’s gone on, he obeyed the command he was given in so sharp a tone.

There’s movement, the flap of white wings nearby. Ingrid has returned. Rodrigue isn’t sure how she’s managed it, but she’s brought both Annette and Mercedes with her, convincing her pegasus to bear an unsafe amount of weight to get Felix the aid he needs. Annette hops down and stumbles as she lands, her arms full with supplies. Ingrid leaps off after, rushing round and extending an arm to help her second passenger down. As Mercedes von Martritz dismounts, Rodrigue can make out the figures of Ashe and Dedue approaching rapidly, sprinting across the grass, coming into view not far behind them. The full class of Blue Lions, come to support their fallen friend.

“Dimitri?” Mercedes asks, when she strides forth, her swift jog slowing to a walk as she makes it to Felix’s side, leaving Ingrid to stand back next to the Professor, her voice calm and reassuring, “Please,” she orders, placing a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, “Move aside.”

“Mercedes...?” Dimitri murmurs, looking up, bleary-eyed, lost. Despite her request, he doesn’t stand or move.

The Lady von Martritz has been oft praised by many in the army for her caring heart, her dedication to service, her skill in the art of healing magic.

Rodrigue can only pray she truly is as good a healer as her classmates made her out to be.

Annette stumbles into place as Mercedes tries to coax Dimitri to give her space, falling to her knees on Dimitri’s other side, spreading her tools out on the grass. “Your Grace,” she says, an apologetic expression on her face at having to order him about, her words pushed forth with agitation, a controlled panic, “If you wouldn’t mind. I, we...” she huffs, setting a healing staff to the side, dropping her bottles - concoctions and elixirs - onto the grass, “If we could,” she says, collecting herself, gesturing meaningfully at Dimitri’s hulking form, “We need the space.”

She doesn’t look at Dimitri once.

“Of course,” Rodrigue nods, numbly. This, he can do, can’t he? Dimitri has shown a willingness to listen to some more than others. Rodrigue is one of the voices he occasionally heeds. “I... Yes. Your Highness.” he calls, standing quickly to guide Dimitri to his feet, pull him back so the two ladies can take their place by Felix’s side, on the other side from Sylvain, who is still working diligently, determinedly, to do what he can with what little he’s mastered. “Dimitri,” Rodrigue says firmly when Dimitri hesitates, gaze locked on Felix’s form on the ground.

When Dimitri looks over at him, face to face, his expression crumples anew, but he obeys, stepping back towards him. He barely manages three steps before he falls again to his knees, at Felix’s feet, burying his face in his hands. “Rodrigue,” he whispers between his fingers, his voice beset with a new waver of guilt, “I’m so sorry.”

Rodrigue swallows. His eyes burn. He blinks quickly, trying to ward away the wetness, turning away.

He doesn’t answer.

What could he say? What is there to be said?

“Oh, Felix...” Mercedes murmurs from where she kneels. Her voice is airy, but burdened with sorrow.

“...Bad?” Felix rasps weakly, looking up at her. How many precious minutes have passed since he took the blow for Dimitri? How much time spent before she made it here?

Rodrigue takes a shuddering breath. Is she too late?

“Annie and I are here now,” Mercedes says, determinedly, pressing a hand to Felix’s forehead, gently brushing his hair aside, “But I need you to fight as hard as you can. We’re going to take care of you,” she promises, and settles back, looking over at the blade, the blood, the wound.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sylvain says to her quickly, in a rush, “I can’t...” he shakes his head in despair, deferring to her, as the most experienced healer, “Mercedes, I’m not...” his breath hitches, choking back whatever sound had threatened to emerge, “I’m not good enough at white magic.”

“You’re doing great, Sylvain,” Mercedes says, “What you’ve done has helped. I’m here, let me,” she takes his hand, repositions it slightly, and pulls forth a _Heal_ of her own, casting over Sylvain’s hand, both a supplement, and a demonstration, to show him where to focus his magic, “Keep your hand there,” she says, pulling away, “And if you have one more spell in you...”

“I have as many as he needs,” Sylvain says determinedly. There’s sweat on his brow. He can’t have much magic left, if any bit at all.

Rodrigue swallows back the lump in his throat. He hadn’t known how close Sylvain and Felix were. He’d known they were friends, but for Sylvain to do so much, to give so much to keep Felix alive...

When Felix was little, he’d proudly proclaimed the Crown Prince to be his best friend. It seems that in the years since, as Felix and Dimitri drifted apart, Sylvain has been the one to take on the proud mantle. Rodrigue doesn’t know how he’ll ever repay the Gautier heir for what he’s doing.

Even if Felix doesn’t...

If he...

“Annie?” Mercedes asks.

“On it!” Annette responds, grabbing the healing staff in her hands, taking a deep breath and studying the blade before her, hovering her hand, trying to determine how best to deal with it.

“Syl...vain?” Felix asks. It’s so quiet, Rodrigue almost misses it. A weak call for attention. Faint. Fleeting.

Rodrigue tries to push down the climbing dread, the burn of ice in his chest. Felix has never had trouble making his voice heard. As a child, he’d cried. As a teen he’d spoken harshly, wasn’t afraid to yell. As an adult, his very bearing commanded attention. To hear him sound like this...

“You have to hold on, okay, Felix?” Sylvain answers, leaning over him as Mercedes’ hands light up with healing magic, “You can’t go yet, alright?” he orders, “You’re not allowed to go.”

“I’m... sorry,” Felix rasps, pushing the words out with what strength he has left.

“Hey, we promised, remember?” Sylvain says, his free hand coming up to cup his cheek, “We were just talking about it earlier this moon. Remember when...” he chokes back a desperate sound, “Hey, remember? I tricked you, wasn’t that funny?” Sylvain asks with a wet, forced little laugh, “You really thought I was going to die, and from such a small little cut too. Well, you better be tricking me right now, huh? Can’t believe you’re pulling the wool over my eyes now, fooled by my own prank...”

Felix manages a huff, a weak push of air, of amusement. His smile is tremulous and faint; small but present.

Rodrigue can’t remember the last time he’d seen it.

He wonders if this might be the last time he ever does.

“You remember what we talked about?” Sylvain continues, babbling to keep Felix’s attention, words falling over themselves to be said, “I’m not going yet, so you can’t go either, alright? Hey!” he calls when Felix’s gaze drifts, “Stay with me, buddy, you promised.”

“Sylv...” Felix gasps, his hand moving shakily to brush against his arm, “Might... break...”

“No, you won’t,” Sylvain argues, another _Heal_ flaring to life under his palm, its green glow brighter than any cast before, “I’m not letting you, Felix. You have to stay with me, buddy. We’re gonna fix it, I promise you’re gonna be okay.”

Felix grunts. It’s a noise of acknowledgement. Nothing more.

Whatever well of strength, of stubbornness that Felix has, it’s becoming clear it’s quickly running dry.

They’re running out of time.

Rodrigue feels numb. Faint.

Felix is so young, still. Barely any time has passed since he finished his year at the academy; all their lives interrupted by this war, these battles, this senseless conflict. Rodrigue has barely had the chance to even address properly with Felix the idea of managing governance of the duchy. Of what it really means to lead Fraldarius as its next Duke. Has barely even thought up how he might convince his headstrong, combat-focused heir to sit still to ponder taxation, land surveys, manage his knights, review appropriate etiquette in correspondence.

Each year, the pressing need to hold the line, to stir up the resistance, to prevent the destruction of Faerghus entirely, had pushed that back. Felix’s longstanding grudge over Glenn’s death, his struggles with the expectations put on every noble heir of Faerghus, have hardly had the chance to abate, to be soothed by time. His relentless drive to find any sign of Dimitri since Cornelia spread her lies of his execution has kept him away from Fraldarius for multiple moons at a time. They’d never had even the faint hope of a chance to broach the topic, if either of them had ever considered it.

Besides, despite Rodrigue’s acute awareness that he is aging - each year a little slower, his lance a little heavier when he hefts it - he is still fit, still able, still ready to serve.

This isn’t how they’re meant to run out of _time_.

Dedue arrives finally, falling into place behind Dimitri, standing watchful. He does not help him up. It’s doubtful Dimitri wants to even try to stand. Ashe takes his place by Ingrid’s side, murmuring something comforting as she brings a hand up to her mouth, her tears threatening her again, now that she’s done what she’s been told to do, condemned now to only helpless waiting.

It’s agony: the waiting, the watching, the horrible realization that there’s nothing you can do to help.

“Sylvain, can he swallow?” Annette asks suddenly, “He’s lost a lot of blood, and we need to get an elixir in him to replace what we can.” She hands him a bottle, pressing it into his hand, then holds up another, “I have a concoction too! Ashe has been holding onto it for emergencies and I think this counts.”

“Annie,” Mercedes says, gentle but firm. A call to focus, to work.

“Right,” Annette nods, taking a breath, “I’m here Mercie, I got it,” she chatters, speaking her agitation to keep her mental focus, to steady herself, “I got this,” she chants to herself, “I got this. We’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.” She takes a breath, and reaches out, taking hold of the hilt of the sword with one hand, shifting her grip on the healing staff with the other before she takes hold of the hilt with it as well, the staff handle pressed against the hilt.

Mercedes’ hands hover over Felix’s torso, palms alight with white magic. Annette closes her eyes and her own magic flares to life as well. The healing staff in her hand lights up with it, and in a cresting wave, it flows down the hilt, the blade, to meet with Mercedes’ magic at the wound.

“Be gentle with it,” Mercedes murmurs, focusing on her magic, guiding Annette to combine their spells, “Just a small tug. Work with my spell.”

Sylvain uncorks the elixir, leaning over Felix as the girls work, “Can you do me a favour, Felix?” he asks, bringing the bottle to his face, “I need you to do me a favour, okay? One favour, that’s all I’m asking, Felix,” he begs, “I need you to drink this. If you do this, I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll owe you big. The biggest favour I’ve ever owed anyone.”

Felix murmurs something. Rodrigue can’t make it out from where he’s standing, but Sylvain must because he laughs, a high desperate sound. More frantic than amused, if there’s any amusement at all.

“Then I’ll owe you twice, no, three times over,” Sylvain declares, shaking his head, bringing the bottle to Felix’s mouth, “Please, just do this one thing for me. I’m begging you, Felix, please.”

Whatever favour Sylvain is promising must be enough, because Felix does. He chokes it down as Sylvain tips it down his throat, and only coughs up a little more than a mouthful of it.

“Sylvain,” Mercedes says, and he turns quickly, dropping the bottle when it’s empty, alert, quick to obey whatever she has to ask of him. Between them, Felix lies back, his head tipped back, his gaze drifting, half-lidded, foggy, staring blankly into the sky. His chest still rises and falls in rapid motions, but it doesn’t seem to move as much as it did before.

For a long, terrible moment, Rodrigue thinks the elixir hasn’t done anything at all.

Beside him, Dimitri has collapsed into a sitting position, no longer able to kneel. He’s staring blankly at the group of them, at Felix’s motionless limbs, muttering to himself, begging to somebody, anybody, nobody at all. “Goddess,” he mumbles. “Don’t take him,” he begs, “Please, not him too.”

“I need you to cast the strongest _Heal_ you can,” Mercedes tells Sylvain, her hands pressed down on Felix’s torso. With Annette’s help, they’ve extracted half of the length of the embedded part of the blade, while Sylvain was coaxing Felix to drink the elixir.

Rodrigue wishes he could tell how well they’ve healed underneath.

Sylvain blinks a rapid sequence - a telltale sign of fatigue, exhaustion. The drip of sweat down his brow can’t be ignored now. Still, he nods determinedly, his voice strong with conviction, “Okay,” he agrees, and places his hand where Mercedes showed him earlier, ready to give, and give, and give again.

His hand shakes, just barely.

There’s nothing Rodrigue can do, he realizes suddenly, to repay Sylvain for what he’s done today

“On my count,” Mercedes commands. Her voice is sweet and breathy, but in this moment, it’s the most authoritative thing Rodrigue has ever heard.

“One,” she starts, her magic flaring to life, ready to work at her command.

“Two,” she counts, and the blade becomes aglow with white magic, Annette’s magic sparking to life, combining with Mercedes’ own, washing the three of them and Felix in its light.

“Three!” she finishes, and the three of them push their spells forth. With a yell, Annette tugs at the sword, firmly, but not recklessly. With a wet sound, it pulls free, and she throws it aside, tossing the healing staff with it, freeing both her hands to press back against the wound, to push as much of her magic as she can to close it with the others, to seal it up finally, and restore the flesh to what it once was before the blade had pierced it.

The glow of white magic flares so brightly, Rodrigue has to close his eyes. It holds its intensity for a heartbeat, two, then begins to dim. Sylvain makes a shuddering gasp of a noise, and falls to his side, catching himself on his forearm, panting for breath. His casting hand shakes, and he flexes the fingers, but there’s nothing left. He’s utterly spent; given, at last, everything he has.

“Felix?” he asks, pushing himself up as Annette falls back on her haunches, breathing deep.

Felix doesn’t make a sound.

Mercedes’ hand is still aglow, but her brow is furrowed as she looks at Felix’s face. Quickly, she presses down on the bloody spot where Felix’s wound was, closing her eyes, reaching out with her magic, pushing deeper, a new spell searching for what they might have missed.

Sylvain shifts, dragging himself over to lean over Felix’s face. “Felix?” he asks again hesitantly, scared. His hand shakes as he brings it up to his face, brushing his thumb over his cheek, smearing a bloody line where he touches, “H-hey, come on, buddy. Answer me..!”

A pit opens up in Rodrigue’s stomach. The edges of his vision start to blur, narrowing to the sight before him: his son, covered in blood, lying motionless in the dirt.

Felix’s eyes are closed. His expression is lax, the ever-present furrow of his brow, which Rodrigue has grown so used to seeing, now absent. With Sylvain leaning over him, Rodrigue can’t clearly see his chest, can’t determine if it rises still. If he were a far more ignorant man, he could be convinced Felix was merely unconscious.

Unfortunately, he knows too much - has seen too much of battle and war, is aware of what far less severe wounds are capable of - to be so fooled.

He hasn’t seen Felix look so at peace in a long, long time.

Ingrid stifles a sob where she stands, staggering under the weight of her sorrow. Ashe catches her, keeps her upright, trying to reassure her, even as he looks increasingly desperate, gaze darting frantically between Ingrid, Felix, Mercedes, and the Professor, searching for somebody who might be able to provide any explanation of what’s happened.

The Professor’s gaze is locked on Mercedes. Her eyes seem to shine, to glow as she watches, unblinkingly, her expression blank. Waiting.

The bishop is still healing, her hand aglow. In theory, white magic can only be received by a living body. In practice, Rodrigue has not attempted it on any dead person to know if the law holds true.

He closes his eyes. There’s a spark of faith, just enough, to ward off the encroaching despair.

“Don’t die,” Dimitri pleads to Felix, who cannot hear him, “Please don’t die.”

_‘Please, Goddess_ ,’ Rodrigue prays, quietly to the deity of the land who he can’t be sure is listening, _‘Not my youngest too’_

Mercedes’ hand stops glowing, and she sits back, taking a breath, leaning forward to push Sylvain gently aside. With her other hand, she presses two fingers to Felix’s neck, searching for a pulse, then she moves it, gently brushing the back of her hand under his nose, leaning forward to listen to his chest.

“Mercedes,” Sylvain rasps. A question.

A plea.

She releases the breath she was holding, “He’s alive,” she announces, sitting up, “He’s breathing.”

Sylvain closes his eyes. He chokes back a sob - just one - and leans over Felix again, resting his forehead against Felix’s own, pressing his own bloody gloved fingers against Felix’s neck to feel his pulse for himself, to reassure himself of any signs of life, murmuring something quiet, private between them.

Annette takes a great shuddering breath where she kneels, dropping her head on her hands where she’s rested them on Felix’s abdomen. After a moment, her breath hitches, and she starts to shake with quiet sobs, overwhelmed with relief, everything catching up with her at once.

The breath he was holding escapes Rodrigue’s lungs in such a rush he feels dizzy, faint.

He hasn’t lost Felix yet.

His son is still alive.

Dimitri falls silent, his mutterings ceased.

All around them, the rest of the Blue Lions shake off the blanket of heavy tension. Ingrid bursts into tears, burying her face in Ashe’s shoulder as he clutches her tight. Their relief is palpable, but tempered. The celebration muted, weighed down by the anxiety of knowing this is but a brief reprieve.

Mercedes had said Felix was alive.

She hadn’t said he’d be alright.

“We can’t stay here,” The Professor announces, breaking the bubble of relief, the momentary muted celebration. With a fluid motion, she finally places her sword back on her belt, stowing it away at last, after clutching it at the ready for so long. The glow of the sword fades as soon as she releases the hilt.

“I agree,” Mercedes states, “Felix isn’t quite stable yet. We’ve done what we can for now, but this is the limit of what we can do here, without resources.”

“We must pull back to the Great Bridge of Myrddin,” Dedue speaks up, “The Empire may return at any time to pick off any stragglers who remain. Gilbert has gone to coordinate our forces to march back.”

“Then let’s go,” Byleth nods. Her gaze darts down to Felix’s unconscious form, a brief expression of sorrow falling into place, before it’s replaced with a frown, “Who can take Felix? We have a few wagons for the injured, but...”

Dimitri looks up suddenly, spurred by some unknown motivation, compelled to do something, perhaps in penitence, guilt, “I-”

“I got it,” Sylvain interrupts, getting his feet under himself, reaching to scoop Felix’s unconscious form into his arms. He staggers under his weight when he lifts, but stubbornly keeps his balance, rising slowly, unsteadily to his feet.

Felix’s head lolls against his shoulder. He looks so small, clutched in his arms.

Rodrigue swallows down the ache in his chest.

It doesn’t help.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid scolds, stepping forward, “You’re in no shape-”

“I said,” Sylvain says loudly, pointedly, keeping his gaze on Dimitri, his eyes burning with something cold, bitter, like the northern frost of his lands, “I got it.”

Dimitri looks cowed, under his gaze. The prince folds into himself, unable to meet his eyes, head bowed, ashamed.

“Sylvain,” Byleth says, admonishing, striding forth as Sylvain takes a step, wobbles when he plants his foot. The Gautier heir is in no shape to do more than carry his own weight. If he stubbornly keeps on, he will risk further injury to himself, and Felix as well. He stares determinedly forward, trying to ward off uncertainty as he realizes that he might not be able to handle any more than he already has.

“Let me,” Dedue says, rescuing him from his thoughts, helping him to a decision, resting a hand on his shoulder to steady him before reaching out to take Felix’s unconscious form from his arms.

Sylvain hesitates, only briefly, but relents, allowing the other man to take him.

“Dedue,” Mercedes calls, striding up to him, resting a hand on Felix’s arm, her palm lighting up with another spell. The well of her white magic is seemingly endless. “Walk with me,” she says, “I’ll need to monitor Felix’s condition.”

“Of course,” Dedue agrees easily, and they go, Dedue taking great care to keep pace with Mercedes, with Felix held carefully in his arms.

The rest of the Lions follow him. Annette and Ashe rushing quickly after. Ingrid keeps an arm on Sylvain’s back, guiding him back to his horse. It takes him two attempts to grasp the reins before he follows the rest of them, tugging his mare along as he leans against Ingrid, her pegasus following.

“Are you alright?” the Professor asks, pulling Rodrigue from his thoughts, resting a hand on his arm, calling his attentions away from the Lions walking away with his son.

“I’m...” he clears his throat, shaking his head, trying to ward off the numb sense of floating, of feeling off-balance, spent, despite having done nothing useful to help at all, “I’m alright, thank you, Professor,” he says faintly, with a weak smile.

“Don’t blame yourself.”

The smile freezes on Rodrigue’s face, then cracks, crumbles. His heart shakes, burning with shame, inadequacy, where it sits in his chest.

How can he not? His son needed him, and he couldn’t even muster a single healing spell. His wealth of experience with white magic, all of it rendered useless in panic, fear, when faced with his wounded child. Sylvain was never formally trained to focus on white magic, not like Rodrigue - the Gautier heir had picked it up because he could, and because it was useful in war, for minor scrapes, shallow bruises. He should never have been the one to bear the burden of expending so much for such a severe injury, with how little he’s mastered of the art.

There was no need for Felix to leap in front of the blade. Rodrigue was closer. If anything, he is the one who should have taken the blow for His Highness.

_He_ was the one who promised to his King. Not Felix.

“I understand how hard it is,” Byleth says, hesitantly, her grasp tightening briefly on his arm to free him from his thoughts, “To feel... helpless, when it’s your family...”

She trails off, an expression of vulnerability passing briefly over her face. Rodrigue swallows. He forgot - it’s so easy to, with how self-assured the Professor is, how incredible her tactical mind - that Byleth is young too. Barely any older than the students she taught and now commands.

“I should have...” Rodrigue stammers, swallowing, “My magic...”

“These things happen when you’re scared,” Byleth says, shaking her head, “It’s not your fault.”

Respectfully, he disagrees. He bears responsibility. His failure to his own son is great. It’s a burden he will bear for likely the rest of his life. But he keeps silent, looking down. He appreciates what she’s trying to do.

She gives a nod, firm, then turns to address the Prince, still hunched over on the earth, kneeling in the dirt, “Dimitri, we must go.”

Dimitri looks up. He looks lost, confused. After so many moons of barely suppressed rage and outbursts of anger, he’d been aged terribly by what he’s lived through, the conditions he’s borne. Now, with his anger having fled him - wracked with guilt, his sorrows having ravaged him - he looks his proper age. Young. Uncertain.

“Come on,” Byleth orders, reaching out with a hand.

Dimitri leans forward. He does not take her hand, but he stands, staggering to his feet.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue says, reaching to support him, “You’re injured.”

“...Mm,” Dimitri murmurs absently, taking hesitant steps, stooping briefly to take hold of Areadbhar, dropped, forgotten in the grass during all the chaos. He hesitates, staring after the retreating figures of his friends rushing over the field to rejoin their army.

“Dimitri?” Rodrigue asks, coming up next to him. Byleth stands a few steps away, watching them, waiting for them to follow. She’s picked up Felix’s forgotten silver sword and is holding it, point down at the grass. He’d appreciate that. Felix hates to lose blades while they’re still sharp.

Dimitri looks back at him. His blue eye is blank, empty, weighed down with something more than his sorrows. For the first time in many moons, there’s no anger left in his gaze.

Rodrigue glances away, uncomfortable, his own gaze dropping down to the gash in Dimitri’s side, the wound that brought him to the mercy of such a desperate, reckless assassin. “Let me,” he says, to fill the silence, and raises his hand, pressing it against Dimitri’s side.

The _Heal_ takes a moment to form, but it comes. It pulses to life in a drawn-out cast, then in a flash it seals the wound - nothing more than a slightly deeper scrape, really - and when he pulls away, there’s naught but the gash in the armour, the stain of blood to show what used to be there.

There’s an uncomfortable beat, as Dimitri’s blank gaze moves to Rodrigue’s hand, then his healed side, and back again. Rodrigue swallows, his mouth feels dry, his heart jumping as anxiety presses down on him, amplified twofold at what has just transpired. His hand shakes. His gloved palm is covered, still, in Felix’s blood, stained anew with Dimitri’s.

This spell came so easy. It took some time, longer than he’s used to, but when he called, his magic responded. Where was it when it was needed before?

Why was it when he most needed it for Felix, his magic - which he’s lived with as an extension of himself all his life - why did it fail?

Dimitri must be pondering the same question, in his mind. His blank gaze feels heavy on Rodrigue’s soul, like judgement.

“Dimitri,” Byleth calls, and the Prince’s head jerks to look towards her voice. He stands still for just a beat, then follows, lumbering after her as she begins to walk after the rest of their army.

Rodrigue takes a great shuddering breath, lowering his hand to his side. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth, and exhales. Then he straightens his back, and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so begins my personal project to make rodrigue realize a character arc without dying like an asshole
> 
> apologies for subjecting y'all to this, but my personal anger with the plot of AM has been festering for eight months i could not be contained any longer


	2. myrddin

The half day march to the Bridge of Myrddin is a tense and anxious affair. They march at a hurried pace, mounted units leading, flying units alternating patrols, soaring high, ahead, and doubling back routinely to watch for approaching forces: acting as airborne scouts to keep an eye out for any potential ambush hoping to catch the battered Kingdom army from any side. They’re in Empire territory, heading back to a fortified border crossing into Alliance territory.

They’re all a long way from home.

Rodrigue stays close to the wagon where they’ve put Felix, moving him and a few others of the injured back to their destination. Mercedes and Annette remain by his son’s side, inside with two other healers, managing the patients within and doing their best to ensure Felix’s condition doesn’t make a turn for the worse.

If anything were to happen, Rodrigue wants to be present. He needs to be nearby. He doesn’t think he could bear the thought if something happened and he wasn’t present or near enough to know, to help, to attempt to make a difference. He knows what it’s like to live through that. He doesn’t think he can bear to do it again.

Sylvain, too, is inside. With how much energy he expended, pouring as much as he could into his magic, he couldn’t stay upright in his saddle to ride. They bundled him in to rest, to sleep off his exhaustion as they make their way back to the bridge. It’s the least he deserves for all he’s done.

The rest of the Blue Lions hover near, consciously or unconsciously staying within hearing distance of the cart, anxious for news, hoping for the good, wary of the bad. Ashe has been given the responsibility of watching Sylvain’s horse, holding her lead as he walks alongside Dedue, his free hand coming to his mouth frequently, to press nervously at his teeth. Ingrid swoops over between her patrols, hovering nearby, watching for any change, before she soars off again to return to her responsibilities, alternating between keeping herself useful to calm her anxious heart, and returning to watch over her friends, make sure she doesn’t miss any new development.

His Highness marches behind the wagon, the Professor at his side. He stares straight ahead at the wagon before him. It’s eerie, unsettling: the way he watches, the intensity of his gaze. It’s as if he can stare through it, into it, to monitor Felix’s state with his own eyes through the wooden structure. He murmurs as he walks, to himself. Whatever he’s saying, Rodrigue isn’t close enough to hear.

He’s not sure he wants to know what His Highness is saying. To whom his words are for.

This way, they march onward, back to the bridge. Once they make it there, they’ll get the chance to count their losses, reshuffle their battalions, rebuild to move forward.

Even before they formally do that, Rodrigue already knows they’re in no shape to push towards Enbarr. His Highness doesn’t look to be in any state or show any desire to retake Fhirdiad. They can’t stay at Myrddin - it’s sandwiched between the hostile Empire, and an Alliance which has been wounded terribly, in part by their hand. To remain at the Bridge would be courting disaster.

Rodrigue no longer knows which direction ‘forward’ will be.

The thought is a terrifying one to behold.

He can only pray the Professor might have some clue, some idea of what comes next.

~o.O.o~

A team of healers receives them when they arrive at the Bridge of Myrrdin’s main fortress, having received word ahead by a messenger. Mercedes greets them, speaking to the lead physician as other army personnel work in a flurry to take their horses, their supplies, to unload the wagons.

Seteth arrives to speak with the Professor. Having been managing the Knights of Seiros at the head of the marching column, he’d arrived at Myrrdin earlier and is anxious to speak with her, to discuss their plans, the army’s position, the concerns he has as to what comes next. She guides him away, casting a worried glance to the Blue Lions as she goes, trying to give them a look of reassurance before her responsibilities pull her away.

It’s two young priests who move Felix onto a stretcher, rushing quickly to lay him on it as Mercedes keeps her hand on his chest, monitoring his condition, pushing whatever magic is needed to keep him stable. As soon as he’s secured, they rush off, Annette leading, speaking quickly with other accompanying healers, Mercedes keeping pace, taking quick strides, keeping her hand on Felix the whole way.

The rest of them watch them go, grouping together unconsciously as they leave. There wouldn’t be anything to be gained by following. With more healers and a proper infirmary, there’s more hands for Mercedes to manage. To follow would only mean they’d get in the way.

Now all they can do is pray.

Rodrigue coughs, unsure what to do next. No doubt there are things that must be done, but he’s anxious. For Felix, for these young generals, for the uncertain future. Still, it wouldn’t do to stand around, worrying. He should do something to keep his mind busy. They’ve an army to manage. He meets Gilbert’s gaze. The knight nods.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue starts, turning to Dimitri, but he stops with a jump of surprise when there’s a flash of movement to the side.

Without warning, Sylvain lunges from where he was standing, grabbing at Dimitri’s cloak. With a hard jerk he yanks him forwards, his left hand buried in the fur, pulling the prince towards him in a sudden motion. Dimitri stumbles forward, but before he can get his bearings, catch his balance, Sylvain winds back and punches him square across the face.

Dimitri’s head jerks to the side, staggering with the force of the blow. Sylvain doesn’t let him get more than one step away, yanking him back with the hand fisted in his furs and pulling back to swing again.

“Sylvain!” Rodrigue shouts, stepping forth to stop him. The young lord is out of line completely - to assault the prince in such a manner, no matter how upset he is, is completely unacceptable behaviour from anyone, much less a future head of his house. A treasonous, punishable offense, in any other circumstance.

Before he can even reach him, everyone around them moves at once, yelling exclamations of shock, lunging forward to stop this sudden act of violence. Dedue rushes to Dimitri’s side, Ashe to Sylvain’s, crowding them, trying to separate them. Rodrigue ends up on Dimitri’s other side, unsure what to do, with so many bodies trying to intervene. Ingrid manages a grab at Sylvain’s arm, but he shakes her off with a twist of his own, throwing his second punch as soon as his arm is free.

Dimitri’s head jerks back at the blow. A weaker blow, with the interference of his peers, but still a hard strike, in the end.

“Sylvain!” Ingrid yells, wrapping both her hands round the Gautier heir’s forearm, leaning back as she yanks to keep him from swinging again. Sylvain tries, nonetheless, but this time he’s restrained. Dedue’s grip on his wrist, combined with Ingrid’s hold, is too much for him pull away from.

With his right held back, Sylvain tightens his grip on Dimitri with his left, dragging him closer, “Was it worth it, Dimitri?” he shouts, shaking the prince in his grip, “Huh? Was it?!”

“Sylvain, stop!” Gilbert orders, placing a hand on Sylvain’s chest, trying to get between them.

Sylvain ignores him, turning away from him, yanking Dimitri to the side to keep him in his view, “You wanted to go to the Empire, so we did! We followed you, and now look! Look at where you’ve taken us!”

“Sylvain,” Gilbert repeats firmly.

“Shut up!” Sylvain snaps back, wrenching his arm free from Dedue and Ingrid with a twist of his body to shove the older knight out of his way, “Stay out of this!” Ingrid stumbles back. Dedue catches her. They stand back, wary, waiting to intervene if he raises his arm again.

“Let go of His Highness,” Gilbert orders, finally, his stance unconsciously widening, preparing to forcibly intervene.

“No!” Sylvain snarls, glaring back at him, unwilling to back down. With teeth bared, he turns on Dimitri, brown eyes flashing with something dark and angry, “Not until he answers me,” he says, his grip in his furs tightens so much, his arm shakes, “You owe me this, Dimitri. You owe _all of us!_ ”

Dimitri doesn’t respond. He stands, moves limply when Sylvain shakes him, staring at the ground, unable, or unwilling to look back into his eyes.

“...Sylvain,” Rodrigue speaks up, trying for a milder tone, a gentler touch. It won’t do to escalate the situation, not while Sylvain is so caught up in his emotions, “Now is not the time-”

“If not now then when?!” Sylvain whirls on him, eyes wild, “When we’re all fucking _dead_? Look at us!” he yells, gesturing sharply with his free hand at the rest of them, at the bridge, the watchtowers scattered across its length, “How many people did this cost us, huh? How much of our equipment, our funds have we _wasted_? How many battalions have we lost? And even Felix-” Sylvain chokes on his words, barely able to voice what happened. He doesn’t force himself to keep talking, gritting his teeth instead, taking deep breaths through his nose, blinking away the wetness in his eyes.

Rodrigue struggles to formulate a response. He’s all too aware of the cost of going to Gronder, the risk their small Kingdom army is continuing to bear with their current position, holding a bridge between two enemy territories, vulnerable to attack from either side. The careless manner with which Dimitri has been directing the army’s affairs - in turns demanding where he as prince wants the army to go, then refusing to engage in the army’s day to day operations as if he’d rather everyone around him do as they please - has potentially magnified that risk twofold. The personal toll, Rodrigue himself bears, weighing ominously, ever present in his mind: the uncertain fate of his only living son. He’d tried to talk Dimitri down from pushing into Empire territory before they were ready, to think before he made his decisions. His failure to do so is something he is all too conscious of.

The cost of this decision is also his responsibility to bear. This enduring guilt weighing down his heart is something he deserves.

“We pushed the Empire into retreat,” Gilbert says, carefully, trying to talk Sylvain down from his outrage, “This is a victory, Sylvain.”

“A vic- A _victory_?!” Sylvain says with an incredulous laugh, turning on him, “Are you _mad_?! We barely had anything to start with, and now what, huh? The Emperor’s back in Enbarr, safe as houses! The Alliance won’t be looking to work with us after what we’ve done at Gronder, and Faerghus has nothing left to give us!” Sylvain shakes his head, a wild and desperate motion, “We have _nothing_! So, tell me,” he turns to the prince again, shaking him in his grasp, “Dimitri, say it _to my face!_ What the fuck were we trying to accomplish?!”

The prince doesn’t say anything. He looms before him, held in his grasp, utterly silent.

“We went _for you! You_ wanted this! So _you tell me_!”

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri rasps, the first proper words he’s said since they left Gronder. The only words he can think to say, to respond to Sylvain’s demands for answers.

“All the way to fucking Gronder!” Sylvain yells, as if he didn’t hear him; as if Dimitri said nothing at all, “Without even our _Kingdom_ behind us and for _what,_ Dimitri? What the _fuck_ are we fighting for?!”

Dimitri blinks slowly, his gaze dropping down before he dares to look up again into Sylvain’s eyes. He opens his mouth, closes it, licks his lips, and croaks, “...I didn’t ask you all-”

Sylvain howls in rage and lunges again, but he’s caught, held back firmly in place by Dedue, Ingrid, Gilbert - too many people to allow him to take more than half a step forward, even with all his fury. Despite this, the Gautier heir’s left hand is still caught in Dimitri’s cloak, hand fisted tight, refusing to let him go.

“You think because you don’t ask, we won’t follow you?” Sylvain asks with incandescent fury, incredulous at the gall of what Dimitri can even dare to say, “You’re the _Prince of Faerghus_ , our future _King!_ What are we supposed to do without you?! Five _years_ we’ve fought to keep Faerghus from falling to the Empire without you, and all we’ve done is _lose_! What are our choices, Dimitri?! Why the fuck would we just leave you to go back to that when you’re _alive!_ You’re supposed to be our chance! Our best option!”

Rodrigue swallows, looking over at his Prince. He should intervene, but maybe it is a good thing for Dimitri to hear these things being said.

To stubbornly hold the line with few men, fewer resources, little hope: these are frustrations he understands. Sylvain is speaking from experience: an experience Rodrigue intimately knows.

Somebody needs to tell Dimitri what consequences his absence has wrought. What it means for him to have returned. The hopes everyone has for what he represents. What his miraculous return is supposed to bring to Faerghus.

Rodrigue lacks that strength, that resolve to speak in such a way to the Prince when he’s previously shown a lack of receptiveness to listen, but clearly Sylvain does not.

Dimitri makes a wounded sound, “I don’t deserve-”

“I don’t care what you deserve!” Sylvain snaps, stepping forward, fisting his other hand in Dimitri’s cloak as well, “This isn’t about just _you_!”

Rodrigue blinks, feeling a spark of recollection, the echo of something he’s heard before. As soon as he does, it’s gone, swept away by the ongoing conflict before him.

The prince looks down again, his breath hitching - the hiccup of a suppressed sound.

“I’m here because I wanted to fight for something I believed in,” Sylvain says, his voice low, “When we found you... when we found the Professor, I thought we’d find that! But instead, we’re just fighting!” he cries, frustrated, upset, “We’re just _fighting_ , Dimitri!”

There’s a long beat of silence, then. Dimitri says nothing at all, not even any apologies, now that it’s clear Sylvain isn’t interested in them, doesn’t want to hear anything that isn’t an explanation for why things have happened the way they have. The others shuffle nervously, waiting for Sylvain to let go of Dimitri, for a cue that it’s time to end this altercation. Gilbert meets Rodrigue’s eye. He looks away.

“If he dies, Dimitri...” Sylvain hisses suddenly, tightening his grip on Dimitri’s cloak, breaking the silence before anyone else can.

Rodrigue’s gut lurches, at the words. Somebody gasps. An ensuing silence settles in suddenly as everyone jerks to a stop and stares, in shock, in dread, in mutual horror when Sylvain dares to voice what nobody wants to contemplate. There’s an undercurrent of horror, a threat: the unvoiced promise of what will come next.

Even Sylvain himself wavers, uncertain, showing finally his fear, under all the anger, his mind catching up, comprehending what his mouth is saying.

“If Felix dies,” he rasps, soldiering on, his grip tightening in Dimitri’s fur cloak, fingers digging deep, “I...”

His mouth opens, closes, and opens again. Soundless. Whatever he is going to say, he can’t find the means to voice it. Whatever threats, whatever ultimatums he wishes to speak, he can’t put it into words.

The longer he struggles to find his words, the more lost he seems, gaze searching, darting across the prince’s face, his furrowed brow losing its severe turn down, his eyes watering as his emotions overtake him, blotting out his rage. Instead, his expression crumbles to pieces. His hand shakes, his grip wavering, his fist sliding down Dimitri’s armoured breast as he bows his head before him, closing his eyes as his tears finally crest his lower lids and fall.

“He might _die_ , Dimitri,” Sylvain cries. All at once his bravado, his composure leaves him, and he stumbles, leaning against the man before him, butting his head into his shoulder, clutching at his armour to keep himself upright, “Please,” he sobs, great heaving breaths in between, “Just tell me what he’s dying _for_.”

Dimitri stares, his left eye opened wide. The bags under his eye are dark, black with exhaustion, heavy with sorrow, weighed down further with guilt. He swallows and says nothing, gaze dropping down to where Sylvain leans against him, begging for any answer at all. Whatever answer Sylvain is looking for, the Prince cannot give it.

Rodrigue fears the Prince doesn’t know at all.

Or that if he does. he’s not prepared to voice it.

 _‘If we lose, we’ll have died for you.’_ Felix had said to Dimitri, before they marched on Gronder. _‘I hope you know that_.’

At the time, Rodrigue had rebuked Felix, told him to stop, not to burden His Highness with such thoughts. Now it feels so foolish to have stopped such things from being said. If more of them had spoken up like Felix, stated firmly their objections, given their counter-counsel... would Dimitri have been able to be convinced of more sound decisions? Would he have taken a step back from such a reckless advance, with Faerghus unable to provide more than what Rodrigue and Fraldarius was able to spare? Might he have been more cautious about who he allowed to join, his conduct on the field of war? Could all of this have been avoided?

Dimitri hadn’t said anything back at the time.

Rodrigue wonders if his silence was his way of avoiding considering that possibility.

If it was, he can’t ignore it any longer.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, gently, stepping forward to tug at him, trying to coax him to let to of the Prince, to step away.

Sylvain tightens his grip on Dimitri briefly, his fists clenching, but he goes. He backs away, swallowing back his sobs, swiping fiercely at his eyes. Without looking at the Prince, he turns away, letting Ingrid wrap her arms around him, walk him several steps away. Ashe goes with them, giving Dedue a look as he goes.

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” Dedue asks, moving to stand before him, acting as a physical barrier between himself and Sylvain as the other man is pulled away.

Dimitri raises a hand to his face, pressing at the growing red mark under his left eye. He grimaces when he touches it. “I’m fine, Dedue,” he rumbles, shaking his head. Sylvain’s strike had been hard. The metal of his gauntlet has left an awful scrape on His Highness’ cheek, the area around it reddening with each passing minute, becoming inflamed. He ought to get that looked at.

Rodrigue’s hand twitches. He could heal that.

A flash of a memory. The warmth of his son’s blood under his hand. The plaintive look of his golden eyes, wide-eyed and scared, wondering why his own father couldn’t give him the help he needed.

He stills his hand.

No. Maybe he shouldn’t.

“Professor,” Dedue says, suddenly, and Rodrigue looks up. Byleth is sweeping back towards them, casting a brief look of question towards Sylvain and those around him, before turning to the group of them huddled around His Highness.

“The Knights would like to debrief,” she says with a frown, looking up at Dimitri’s face, her brow rising as she turns back to glance at Sylvain, puzzling out what went on in her absence.

“Now?” Rodrigue finds himself asking. Surely this can wait until they’ve reached the monastery. They’re in no state to discuss any concrete plans of what comes next. They need time to collect themselves.

Byleth grimaces as if she, too, finds there’s no need to rush into it, “The earlier the better, they believe. Seteth...” she sighs, “He’s... anxious. He would like to discuss, plan ahead.”

“Of course,” Gilbert agrees easily with a nod, heedless to the reluctance of everyone else, the look of consternation on Ashe’s and Dedue’s face, Sylvain and Ingrid’s obvious distress, “Whereabouts?”

“We have a temporary war room in the bridge fortress,” Byleth says, projecting her voice so everyone can hear.

Sylvain sniffs loudly, crossing his arms. His tears have stopped, his composure found, with a stoic frown planted on his face, but his eyes are red still, betraying his emotional turmoil.

“Maybe... could we wait?” Ashe asks tentatively, resting a hand on Sylvain’s arm, “Just... until we get an update on Felix’s condition from the healers. I... it’s just hard to think about strategy when...” he swallows.

Rodrigue feels a brief weight in his chest, appreciating that Ashe has said his thoughts on the matter. He, too, would prefer to wait until they had word from the healers before sitting down to discuss next steps for the army.

It’s hard to concentrate on such things, knowing Felix’s condition is still so fragile.

“We don’t know when that will be,” Byleth says, with a sympathetic shake of her head, “It’s a quick debrief, Seteth assured me. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can rest.”

“Fine, let’s go,” Sylvain says, shaking Ingrid and Ashe’s hands off him as he stalks towards the fortress, “Get it over with.”

Byleth watches him go. She sighs unhappily, turning to the rest of them. “Come,” she says with a wave of her hand, and they follow.

~o.O.o~

The leadership of the Knights of Seiros are already assembled in the hastily put together war room in the main fortress of the Bridge of Myrddin by the time they arrive. They look unhappy; Catherine in particular looks frustrated, though Alois just looks sad. The glance he casts at Rodrigue is one filled with abject sorrow. He can’t quite hold the gaze. Seteth is the only one standing, clearly having been in the middle of pacing, and does not sit until the Professor arrives in the room.

Manuela is conspicuously missing, as is young miss Flayn. Mercedes as well does not attend this meeting, though Annette does, slipping in before the door closes, her eyes red, her gloves missing, though her sleeves are stained at the hems with blood.

His Highness is present but seems to have shuffled into the room on accident, unsure of where else to go within the unfamiliar layout of the bridge. He refuses a seat at the table, finding a secluded corner instead to collapse into, wrapping his arms around his knees, Areadbhar propped up against his shoulder.

Gilbert heaves a sigh at the sight, but says nothing. The fact Dimitri is present at all is an improvement, Rodrigue supposes.

Sylvain leans over Annette before he takes his seat, asking a quiet question. She shakes her head in response, responding quietly back. Sylvain tightens his grip on her shoulder, then manages a stiff smile at her, murmuring his thanks before he straightens and lets go, heading to his seat further down the line.

Rodrigue wishes he could hear what she said.

“Well then,” Byleth says, when everyone has been seated, “Let’s begin.”

Rodrigue tries to follow the discussion, but finds it difficult to concentrate. As they recount what the army’s position is - how many they’ve lost, what resources they have left, the funds that remain - he finds it isn’t information he hasn’t already considered and dwelled on, and so finds he doesn’t have much to add.

His mind drifts instead, as does his gaze, across the table, counting the empty chairs. Three accomplished healers missing from the room, excused to tend to Felix while this meeting takes place. Perhaps his condition was worse than Rodrigue had thought. After the relief at Gronder, when the wound was sealed, when Mercedes told them his son yet lived... he’d thought Felix would improve the more time passed since the blow.

How bad must it still be if Mercedes still has to remain by his side, if Manuela must be with her, if even young Flayn has to join them to do what she can to help?

Annette is staring stone-faced at the grain of the wooden table, her hands wringing every now and then, where she has them rested on the surface. There is restlessness in the rest of Felix’s friends as well - Ashe’s darting gaze as he struggles to focus on what is being said, Ingrid’s unconscious chewing on her lip, Dedue’s concerned sideways look, focused on Dimitri in the corner.

Sylvain, perhaps, is worst of all: his elbows on his knees, head bowed, not even feigning to pay attention, his right leg bouncing restlessly, his gaze darting every few seconds to the door, as if waiting, dreading it might open with news he doesn’t want to hear.

All the while, Dimitri sits motionless in the corner, his head buried in his arms.

Rodrigue looks away, looking down at the table.

If Felix dies...

What will it mean for all of them? Sylvain had almost threatened something, if the unthinkable came to pass. Could it be that he was threatening to leave? That if Felix... if Felix died, he could no longer fight for the army he died for?

Would the others follow him if he did?

Rodrigue clenches his fists in his lap.

If Felix dies... what will it mean for him? What will become of Fraldarius?

What will he have left to go home to?

“Your Grace,” Seteth says, suddenly, snapping Rodrigue from his dark thoughts, pulling him back to the discussion, “What are your thoughts?”

“Hm?” Rodrigue says with a jump. What were they talking about? “Ah... My apologies. I...” he hesitates, embarrassed at his inattention, “I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere.”

“Oh. Yes,” Seteth says, awkwardly, as if remembering the wyvern in the room, what the empty seats mean, “I... We were discussing what to do next.”

“I see,” Rodrigue responds neutrally. What’s next? He has no idea. He hasn’t thought that far ahead. Nothing beyond doing the usual rounds of army maintenance, checking in on his knights and their battalions: idle waiting until they hear next from the healers about Felix’s condition.

“Your Highness?” Gilbert ventures.

Dimitri doesn’t respond.

Rodrigue doesn’t know what the old knight was expecting.

“...I think we should consider postponing our push to Enbarr,” Byleth says, suddenly, her arms crossed, her gaze blank and piercing.

“Abandon our push to Enbarr?” Catherine asks, “What about Lady Rhea?”

“No one said we were abandoning her,” Byleth responds calmly, “You must admit, we are in no state to push further into the Empire. I understand your concerns, given what we chose to do two moons ago,” her gaze flits to Dimitri in the corner, then returns to the table, “To change direction is unorthodox, but we need to figure out how to bolster our army if we hope to have any chance to take on the Empire. Other directions in this war may be what we need. A detour will still take us to the same final destination.”

Catherine grimaces but leans back in her chair. She’s no fool. For all her devotion to the Archbishop, she knows a push doomed to fail is worse than having to wait a little longer to rescue her. If the army proceeds deeper into Empire territory as it is now, they’ll never make it further than Fort Merceus, if they make it there at all.

“That decision doesn’t need to be made now,” Byleth says, leaving room for objection, “Regardless of what we ultimately decide, we must return to Garreg Mach first. We cannot push onwards to Enbarr like this. We’ll need to regroup with the troops we left to watch the monastery at least, to have anywhere near enough troops to try it.”

There are murmurs of agreement. Rodrigue fights back a flare of annoyance. This could all have been addressed in an announcement from the Professor after she spoke with the knights on her own. If they were going to make final decisions at the monastery anyway, there was no need to gather everyone for a meeting here at the bridge.

“We shouldn’t have gone to Gronder,” Annette speaks up, suddenly, her voice sharp, cutting through the room.

Everyone turns to look at her. Sylvain’s leg stills, his gaze flickering over to her, even and assessing.

“Annette,” Gilbert says, admonishing.

His daughter doesn’t heed him. “We could have gone to Fhirdiad,” she says, her gaze locked on the surface of the table, her hands balled into fists, “We _should_ have. If we did... the Kingdom could have given us more before we tried to take on the Empire. We could have been better prepared.”

Rodrigue looks down, closing his eyes. That was what he wanted. To take back Fhirdiad, oust that witch Cornelia, reunite the Kingdom to what it was... it would have given the army the full support of the Kingdom if they succeeded. They would have been able, after that, to focus all their attentions to push into the Empire, without having to worry about the Dukedom poised with knives at their back.

He shakes his head. What right does he have to feel vindicated in hearing someone else voice it? He was the one who failed to convince His Highness to make that decision. In the end, they hadn’t gone to Fhirdiad. So here they are.

“What’s done is done,” Byleth says with a shake of her head, giving Annette a sympathetic look, a gesture that she understands, “We should focus on trying to move forward.”

“Well... we won, though. Didn’t we?” Ashe says, hesitantly, his gaze darting back and forth, trying to provide any reassurance, even if he doesn’t seem to truly believe his own words, “We... we forced the Empire and the Alliance to retreat.”

Sylvain snorts derisively, straightening up to lean back in his chair, arms crossed, “Was _that_ winning?”

Ashe falls quiet, looking uncertain.

Ingrid shakes her head, “Sylvain is right,” she says solemnly, “We’re down to half of what we had. Most of our reinforcements are dead or injured. We’re barely better off than when we started. I’m not sure we can call this a victory.”

There’s a sobering silence after. Even if they had won on technicality - having been the last force to remain standing, their leading generals not killed or pushed to retreat - winning a battle doesn’t mean winning a war. Great cost was incurred at Gronder. The Empire as a whole will weather that cost far better than this Kingdom army will, in the coming days.

An argument can be made for victory being good for morale, but what good is morale if there are not enough men to carry the day?

“We didn’t win at Gronder,” Sylvain says lowly, tightening the cross of his arms, digging his fingers into his arms, “We survived Gronder.”

The statement rushes through the room, through every person at the table. The weight of it feels heavy in Rodrigue’s chest.

That’s what they’re doing isn’t it? Surviving battle after battle. Pushing forward by sheer force of will.

“We won’t get anywhere in this war if all we’re doing is surviving.”

The meeting adjourns more or less, after that. There’s little more that can be discussed, and even less that anyone wants to. The knights depart swiftly, eager to rest up, prepare for the next day. Gilbert and Dedue head to Dimitri’s side, to coax him to stand, to get something to eat. Seteth stops by the Professor’s side, drawing her into quiet conversation at the door, and they converse in low tones as the rest of the Blue Lions converge around Annette, asking for any update she might have.

Rodrigue lingers by his chair, standing behind it as he tucks it in, hoping to hear good news.

“I’m sorry,” she says, wringing her hands, after the other question her, “There hasn’t been much change. Manuela and Flayn and the other healers have been a great help and... we’re managing.”

“He’ll live?” Ingrid asks, her voice tremorous with hope.

Annette looks down, “He... he’s doing better. But Mercie... Mercie said it’s still too early to make any promises.”

Sylvain tilts his head back, knocking it against the wall he’s leaning against, blinking intently at the ceiling.

“Felix is strong,” Ashe says, determinedly, “He’ll.. he’ll pull through.”

Rodrigue clutches at the back of his chair. Felix _is_ strong, isn’t he? The best swordsman House Fraldarius has produced in generations. The first major crest bearer in their family in over a century. Through five years of war, he had worried about his youngest, but Felix had never given him reason for great concern. No matter where he’d gone, on how dangerous the mission, he always came home on his own two feet.

Surely, even this time...

“Your Highness,” Gilbert says, his voice cutting through the brief silence.

Rodrigue turns to look. Dimitri has pulled himself to his feet, his shoulders hunched, Areadbhar clutched in his hands. His gaze is fixed somewhere under Gilbert’s chin. He doesn’t look over at his peers.

The rest of the Blue Lions step aside to give him space to pass, to give him the room if his intention is to head towards the door.

“What,” Dimitri responds flatly, staying where he is, with Gilbert standing before him.

“Your face, Your Highness,” Gilbert says, gesturing at the swelling on his face, the red mark no longer ignorable, “Somebody should...”

“I’m fine,” Dimitri says, his hands clenching on his lance, “I don’t need a healer.”

“I insist,” Gilbert responds, “You shouldn’t walk around with that. A small heal should do it, we needn’t bother the healers. Surely...” he turns, his gaze darting through the room.

Sylvain turns away pointedly. Annette stares firmly at the ground, giving her father a shrug and a helpless gesture of her hands. With all she’s done to assist Mercedes today, she must be spent.

Then Gilbert’s gaze falls on Rodrigue, standing still, clutching at his chair.

“Your Grace.”

Caught, Rodrigue tightens his grip on the chair, then releases it, managing a brief smile. He supposes enough time has passed. It wouldn’t do to let the prince wander around with such a clear mark of injury on his face. “Ah,” he says, awkwardly, “Of course,” and approaches slowly, rounding the table.

“I said I’m fine,” Dimitri snaps, turning away as Rodrigue strides over.

“Your Highness,” Gilbert implores.

“Dimitri,” Rodrigue says, quietly, “It’ll just take a moment.”

Dimitri meets his gaze. Whatever he sees makes his obstinance falter, and his anger fades again as he looks down, unable to hold his gaze. He turns towards him and relents.

The _Heal_ comes easily. It’s a small injury. Hardly any white magic need be expended to clear the scrape, the swelling around it. He pulls back as soon as it’s done.

Good as new.

Sylvain laughs.

Rodrigue turns, as do the others, to face him.

It’s an ugly sound. Nothing like the cheery ring of amusement often heard in his company, the clear sound Rodrigue has heard many times before, watching his son prowl around the monastery with Sylvain at his side. This is a crack of noise, a derisive, mocking cackle, ringing through the room. Whatever Sylvain’s laughing about, it must not be funny to him, either.

The Gautier heir shakes his head, pushing off the wall, striding forward to look him in the eye, his arms crossed all the while, “You know what, Your Grace?” he says lightly, his tone chilled. He’s smiling, but he’s put no effort at all to make his grin look real, baring his teeth to show his fangs rather than put anyone at ease, “You’re unbelievable.”

Rodrigue swallows, keeping his gaze on him. Sylvain has been acting volatile since Felix was injured. This rash of unpredictable behaviour, emotional outbursts... he’s never seen him act like this in all his years. He’s not sure what to expect, now.

“As soon as Dimitri needs you, you can do anything,” Sylvain says, with a tilt of his head, “But the one time Felix needs you, the one time he’s right next to you, and you’re the only one who can give him what he needs? You can’t even manage that.”

Rodrigue doesn’t move, frozen by Sylvain’s words, his unforgiving expression. His hands feel numb again. He feels winded, knocked off balance. His heart stutters.

“Sylvain,” Gilbert snaps, “That’s enough.”

Sylvain ignores him. “You know,” he says, idly, uncrossing his arms, shifting his weight, “Felix told me a shitty joke once. He once said that the best way to make you see him, and I mean _really_ see him properly, was for him to do what Glenn used to.”

Rodrigue’s breath catches in his chest, a sudden wave of cold passes from head to toe, followed by a dizziness, a bout of nausea.

“I guess he was right,” Sylvain says, glancing aside, his voice deliberately low, “He had to, didn’t he? All the way to the last thing Glenn ever did.”

Rodrigue bites his tongue, shaking with the force of his emotions. That’s _not_ _true_. How could Sylvain _dare_ to even say such a thing? To accuse Rodrigue of being unable to see Felix as who he is, without filtering him through... through a lens of what Glenn used to do? What does he think he know? What _right_ does he even think he has?

Rodrigue cannot deny he had been proud of his eldest for everything he’d done in life, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been able to see Felix’s accomplishments too. Felix wasn’t like Glenn. Beyond sharing some of Glenn’s teenage mannerisms, the two couldn’t be more different: in their interests, in their abilities, in how they’d grown. Yes, there were times Rodrigue wished Felix was a little more like his brother, but those were idle thoughts he never truly meant. Perhaps it would have made Felix an easier child to manage, but it would also have taken away from who Felix was. Rodrigue recognized that.

He had memorialized his eldest so that he would never forget him, but he never needed Felix to be like him. Surely... _surely_ Felix had known that.

He wishes Sylvain had punched him instead. It would have hurt less.

“Sylvain!” Ingrid scolds, outraged on Rodrigue’s behalf, aghast at what Sylvain has dared to say.

The Gautier heir crosses his arms again, turning away. “Tch.”

“That’s enough,” the Professor says, striding over, her voice cutting, “Sylvain, there’s no need for that.”

Sylvain doesn’t answer, turning towards the door.

She sighs, shaking her head, “You all should get something to eat,” she says to the rest of them, trying to diffuse the situation, “There isn’t much, but we have provisions being distributed by the center fort, near the ballista. We’ve a long march tomorrow. You’ll need your energy.”

There are murmurs of assent, as the others hesitantly take the out and make to leave. It’s an uncomfortable situation. Rodrigue doesn’t blame them for wanting to escape it.

He wishes he could as well.

“Sylvain,” Ashe says, catching up to the taller man, “You should come with us. You must be hungry, right?”

Sylvain shakes his head, pulling free, “No, you go,” he says, “I’m... I’m gonna... check on Felix. See if they might need another hand.”

“Sylvain-” Ingrid calls, but he’s already gone, swiftly marching out the door and out of sight. Like a bolt of lightning, striking the earth to leave a terrible mark of destruction, and gone in a flash.

Dimitri meets Rodrigue’s eye before he goes. There’s something heavy in his gaze. Rodrigue doesn’t know what it is, he isn’t in the state of mind to parse it out. Then the Prince turns and goes, trailing after the Professor, step after step. Gilbert follows after, giving him a nod, an unhappy expression, a grimace to show his disapproval at what has just occurred.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Ingrid says, from the side, and Rodrigue turns to look at her. He feels numb, in the aftermath, “Sylvain was out of line.”

Rodrigue manages a shaky smile. He hopes it’s as reassuring as imagines it to be, “...No, don’t... don’t worry about it. Thank you, Ingrid. I...” he trails off, exhaling shakily.

He must look a sight.

“...I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” Ingrid says, placatingly, glancing towards the door and back again, “Sylvain. Or Felix, if he really said that. I’m sure...” she trails off, uncertain.

“...It’s alright,” Rodrigue lies, “We’re all... it’s a difficult time.”

More difficult for some than others.

Ingrid looks down, “Your Grace, I...” she struggles with her words, trying to come up with something to say.

Rodrigue gives her a shake of his head, patting her hand, “You should go, Ingrid,” he rasps, “I’ll be fine.”

She hesitates, but can’t find the words. With nothing to say, she manages a nod. Then she goes, following the others out the door, glancing back once, to see if he’s okay.

Rodrigue closes his eyes. Now alone in the room, he takes a deep shuddering breath. He just needs a moment.

They’ve survived the day. His Highness is still with the army. The hope of the Kingdom yet stands.

And Felix... he’s still alive.

 _He’s_ _still_ _alive_.

For now.

Rodrigue stifles a wounded noise, raising a hand to his face, breathing deep.

Perhaps he’ll take a moment more.

~o.O.o~

Rodrigue decides against seeking something to eat. Even if he had felt he could muster getting any food down, given the relentless churning of his gut, the notion of choking down any provisions of dried meats and army rations as an evening meal is not an appetizing one. Besides, to wander by where supplies are being distributed would be to invite human interaction and conversation. The idea of walking about and being approached with questions and requests from his troops, small talk from knights... it’s not something he wants to entertain at present.

Not with his mind being what it is, with all these thoughts hounding him.

Instead, he finds himself wandering along the parapet of the bridge, meandering along the length of it in the space between the main fortress and the central ballista, looking out over the Airmid river as it rushes under them.

No one comes to look for him. He supposes he should take that as a good sign.

No news is better than bad news.

As the sun sinks below the horizon, and the brightest of the stars begin to dot the darkening sky, his thoughts shift, inevitably to his eldest, the tragedy that took him, the aftermath which opened a wide, seemingly impassable rift between himself and his youngest child.

A rift which, now, might never be overcome.

When word had returned that Glenn had died at Duscur, Rodrigue had felt the word had stopped. His eldest, his clever boy, his proud royal knight - gone, just like that. Barely nineteen winters he’d lived, cut down like nothing more than an errant stalk of wheat. No father wishes to bury their son. In the end, there hadn’t been enough of him left to be buried properly at all.

The loss of Lambert, the King himself, and all his procession - the entirety of the royal guard, his travel retinue, the closest people he had working with him in Fhirdiad - only compounded the despair Rodrigue had felt. Old friends, staff and personnel he and Lambert trusted, knights he had fought alongside in the years before, all gone in one fell swoop.

In the early days after the tragedy, Rodrigue had often wished he had been at Duscur as well. He was the Shield of Faerghus, was he not? He should have been there to protect his King. Perhaps if he had been, he could have saved Lambert’s life. At his worst, he thought he should have died in Duscur as well, at the side of his King, alongside his firstborn son. In the end, he couldn’t dwell on such thoughts, lest they drag him down into a pit so deep he couldn’t claw his way back to the surface. The Kingdom needed him. Fraldarius needed him. Felix needed him.

Dimitri lived, and with him, the future of the Kingdom. In tears, as he gave his account of what had occurred, he’d professed that Glenn had saved his life and told him to flee. Rodrigue had clung to that. Dimitri’s account gave Glenn’s death meaning. The prince’s survival meant the royal line lived on, and that Faerghus could yet be restored to its former glory under a true King. Glenn’s death was a tragedy, but he’d died honourably. Knowing that gave Rodrigue the strength to carry on.

It did not give Felix the same comfort.

Rodrigue has his regrets with how he handled the tragedy. No man can ever be at his best when beset by such sorrow, but there were things he knew he could have done better. How he managed his youngest in the aftermath is perhaps, his greatest regret.

He no longer quite remembers what he said to Felix, or how long after Glenn’s funeral it was that it happened. All he remembers was that Felix had decried Glenn’s death as meaningless and that celebrating his selfless final act spat on what he had accomplished in life. At the sound of his words, Rodrigue had seen red. Whatever he’d said back... well. Felix had never treated him the same way again.

With the years to cushion the blow of the tragedy, the hindsight that the passage of time gave, it’s now clear to him that it was an outburst of a mourning child who missed his brother above all else. Rodrigue wished he had seen that for what it was. Felix had always been an emotional child - his late wife’s sweet, sensitive little boy. When she’d passed, gone to the Goddess too soon, she hadn’t managed to pass her secrets on how to handle Felix’s wild emotions to her foolish husband. There were days, in the aftermath, where Felix’s anger - his refusal to cry, to show care - cut particularly deep, not because of the harshness of his words, but because Rodrigue knew the Felix of before would never have said them and meant them in such callous ways.

He’s sure that whatever terrible thing he said was the first seed of doubt in Felix’s mind that would bloom into the open disdain he now held for knighthood, duty, chivalry. The stubborn refusal to accept the customs and traditions expected of him as his heir, towards the Kingdom and her royalty. Even as Felix did what he was asked to help his people, honed his blade to be stronger than even the best knights Rodrigue trained in his service, he stubbornly proclaimed all he did was for his own ideals, his own code. Nothing he did was by the chivalric code his father lived by and that his brother had died by, and he made certain everyone knew it.

It’s strange. Glenn had died to save His Highness’ life. Felix might yet die having done the same thing. Both his sons, so very different in what they believed in, likely very different in the reasons for why they did such an act. And yet, in the end, the result is the same.

Rodrigue could do nothing to help his eldest in Duscur, stuck where he was, half a continent away in Fraldarius when tragedy struck and ended his life. For all his wishful thinking about being able to make a difference if he might have been there, it seems he’s just as useless, even when he’s barely the length of a lance away from the action, unable to do a single thing to help as his youngest was struck down right before him.

Glenn died away from home, far away, in a tragedy so consuming, so destructive, there was nothing left of him to bring home, save for his blackened armour, his battered ceremonial sword.

Felix now might do the same, in a battle only slightly less calamitous in the sense that it wasn’t a one-sided massacre. If he does, his body can still be taken home, be buried properly next to the empty grave of his brother, the carefully tended grave of his mother.

The thought brings Rodrigue no comfort.

Felix was scared, lying bloodied in the grass.

Was Glenn scared, too, at the end?

He shivers in the spring chill.

It’s not knowing that haunts him.

~o.O.o~

The waxing Harpstring moon is high in the sky when someone finally seeks Rodrigue out.

“Your Grace,” they call, as he stares blankly out at the vast blackness of the rushing river below, illuminated barely by the flicker of torches along the length of the bridge and the sliver of moonlight hanging in the clear sky.

He turns to see who is approaching, “...Gilbert,” he greets quietly, in the night.

“You should rest,” the knight says, coming up beside him along the parapet, “Tomorrow is a busy day.”

Rodrigue huffs, “You as well,” he says simply, “What are you doing still awake?”

“I have been keeping watch over His Highness,” he says, tone heavy with all the importance of such a duty, “The Professor said she would take over, and told me to get some rest. I thought I would do a quick patrol before I did, and I saw you were still awake.”

“Ah,” Rodrigue responds, for lack of anything else to say. He wasn’t aware Gilbert had taken it upon himself to watch His Highness, but given the change in his emotional state, the shift away from anger in the last day, he supposes a more watchful eye might be warranted, especially given their unfamiliar locale, “How is...”

Gilbert takes a moment to respond. He looks out at the Airmid, considering, before he sighs, “...His Highness appears plagued with regret,” he states, “He refuses to speak, but I have not seen the anger that has followed him all these moons. He’s found the fortress chapel and has holed himself up inside to pass the night.”

“...I see,” Rodrigue says neutrally, turning to look back out at the expanse beyond the bridge. Guilt. Over what happened to Felix? Or is it the same guilt that’s plagued His Highness for many moons, for surviving where his loved ones did not? A new guilt that may cause him to be more thoughtful in his actions, or the enduring old guilt which spurs him forth to seek the vengeance he deserves at any cost?

“I am... sorry,” Gilbert says, in a low tone, “About your son.”

Rodrigue swallows, forcing down the shake of his heart, the lump in his throat, “...Thank you,” he manages, “I... I am hopeful he will make a recovery.” He gives a small huff, a forced sound of levity, “Felix has always been a... stubborn child. In the past five years, at times I had felt that... if it came to it, he’d simply refuse to die.”

As if one could really do that, to ward off death.

Refuse.

“Still...” Rodrigue continues, “With what happened, I’m afraid my worries are too great to allow me much respite. I’m afraid being able to rest may be a tall order for me tonight.”

“Of course,” Gilbert says, understanding.

There’s a beat of silence after. Gilbert has never been a great conversationalist, but in this instance, Rodrigue is more than fine with it. He’s not in a mood for much talking tonight.

Gilbert clears his throat.

It seems, though, that the knight seems to be in such a mood after all. Rodrigue bites down on his cheek, bracing for whatever Gilbert wants to say next.

“Felix made the right choice, Your Grace,” he says quietly, trying to comfort, “If he hadn’t jumped in to defend him... His Highness... no, the Kingdom itself would have been lost.”

Rodrigue closes his eyes. Felix had, hadn’t he? It was the right choice. His quick thinking saved Dimitri’s life. Without Dimitri, what does Faerghus have left to fight for, but principle? He _knows_ Felix did the right thing. And yet...

“You must be proud.”

The feeling of nausea is sudden and visceral. Rodrigue has to suppress a flinch at the words, bite back the first flare of upset, misdirected anger, “Proud is not the word I would use,” he says in a short tone, the words harsh, “Felix shouldn’t have been the one to do it. _I_ should have-” he cuts himself off.

It should have been him.

Felix was faster, but Rodrigue was closer. _He_ should have taken the blow. Spared his son this suffering.

Is that not the least of his duties, if not as a knight, then as a father?

Gilbert says nothing, perhaps surprised at his outburst. Shocked into silence, however brief. Of course, he’d be surprised, Rodrigue thinks, bitterly. He’d spent years touting how proud he had been of Glenn when he died to protect His Highness in Duscur. Why _wouldn’t_ he be proud of Felix having risked his own life to do the same? Is he so fickle, so capricious of a man?

He _is_ proud. He _was_ proud, in that moment. Then Felix staggered to the side and-

“It...” he sighs, frustrated, “I don’t mean to be rude, Gilbert, but I’ve lost one son already in such a manner. Frankly speaking, I’m out of sons to give.”

There’s a beat of silence, as Gilbert turns to look at him, at a loss for words.

“That’s…” Rodrigue brings a hand up, pinches the bridge of his noise between his finger and his thumb in frustration, fighting back a flare of shame, “That’s not what I meant to say. I just…”

“My apologies,” Gilbert manages, after a long pause, to give Rodrigue the time to his turmoil, “I didn’t mean...” he trails off.

Rodrigue doesn’t know what he meant. It doesn’t matter. Having spouted his brief frustrations, the rest of his thoughts seem to spill freely from his mouth in a flood. “Felix didn’t want this,” he says, with a shake of his head, “For years he’s told me how much he hated the way I lived. Knighthood, chivalry... duty to the crown. All these things Felix refused to let govern his priorities, all the more so when he and His Highness drifted apart.” Rodrigue exhales, a tired breath, looking up at the moon, hanging lazily in the sky, “From the beginning, he warned us what would happen if we allowed His Highness to continue to make such reckless decisions. If we followed those commands without question. This isn’t what he wanted. This isn’t what _I_ wanted.”

There’s silence, after. Rodrigue’s words seem to settle in the aftermath, hover in the air, tainting the space between them with his doubts.

He heaves a great sigh, filled with sorrow, “What are we doing, Gilbert?” he asks.

Gilbert doesn’t respond, unsure, perhaps, of what he’s asking.

“How many years of experience between us, and neither of us can find the right words to teach, to _scold_ His Highness, and guide him towards making the right decisions,” Rodrigue asks, frustrated, angry at his own failures, his inability to act when he was needed most, “What use am I as the Duke Fraldarius, if I can’t even advise Dimitri, when I know what he’s doing isn’t right?”

“He’s the Royal Prince, Rodrigue,” Gilbert responds simply, as if that is satisfactory of an answer. As if that’s reason enough not to try.

“Does that mean he can’t be wrong?” Rodrigue asks, “That he can’t be questioned?” he looks down at the stone of the parapet, beyond at the black flow of the river below, “Felix was right. Running down this path recklessly... it’s only a matter of time before we pay the price. He tried to warn us and now... my son...” he trails off, swallowing back the lump in his throat, the despair welling up from his chest.

“He did the right thing, Rodrigue,” Gilbert says, as comforting as he can.

Of course, Felix had. What alternative had there been? Should Felix had let Dimitri die right there in front of him? Just allowed the future of the Kingdom to end in some scorched Empire field, at the hands of a vengeful young maiden? Of _course_ _not_. Rodrigue knows. Goddess he _knows_. He’s preached enough times about the right thing, the _honourable_ thing when Glenn had... Of course, he _knows_.

So why is it that when Felix did the same... now it feels _wrong_?

“Glenn would have been proud of what Felix did.”

Rodrigue bites back the first instinctive objection, swallows down the anger at hearing such a thing, on his eldest’s behalf, “...No,” he manages to bite out, in a much more measured tone, filled with bitterness, rather than anger.

He doesn’t look at Gilbert.

“No, I don’t think he would have.”

Glenn would have been furious if he had been here to see this. Not at Felix, never at Felix. He would have been so angry at Rodrigue, for allowing this to happen. Felix never asked for this. His youngest had made a point to refuse the mantle of knighthood, after his brief time as a squire. It wasn’t conflict Felix shied away from, but the ideals he couldn’t justify, the priorities it asked of him to always account for. To put King before all else when other people were suffering... Felix couldn’t live like that without exception, and refused to force himself to try. He didn’t want to die for anything he didn’t believe in, even if it was what he was expected to do.

Now he might die like that after all because his own father couldn’t move quickly enough to intercept an inexperienced girl with a sword. Couldn’t conjure even a simple healing spell that might have helped when he was most desperately needed.

Couldn’t convince the Prince, that _he_ promised he would guide, to make the right decisions in a war, with so many lives, the very existence of their Kingdom hanging in the balance.

Rodrigue closes his eyes. They burn behind his lids. His cheeks feel wet with sorrow.

“Oh, my son,” he whispers into the night, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know which of his sons he’s apologizing too.

“...Go see him, Rodrigue,” Gilbert says, finally, with nothing else to say, none of his words providing any comfort he wanted to offer, “It’s a long march to Garreg Mach tomorrow. You shouldn’t miss this chance.”

Rodrigue tries not to dwell on what it would mean, to miss a chance. Tries not to consider the possibility that if he doesn’t see Felix now, he might never see him alive again. He nods stiffly, turning away. It must be late now. Surely this hour would mean there would be less to contend with, if he went to see him.

He strides off towards the main fortress.

He does not bid Gilbert goodnight.

~o.O.o~

It’s late enough that Rodrigue passes only two wandering patrols of soldiers on watch on his way to the bridge infirmary, neither of which say more to him than the courteous greeting of “Your Grace,” as he passes by.

The main fortress is silent, the hallways lit sparsely by torches, just enough such that anyone traversing them so late at night won’t trip as they walk. It’s quiet. His boots click against the stone floors, the noise echoing off the walls.

The closer he gets to the private fortress infirmary - its double doors closed to keep out visitors - the more nervous he feels. His steps seem to get smaller, with each stride towards his destination. How many hours had it been since he’d seen Felix last? He’d been so still when they’d moved him, so pale, even after hours under Mercedes’ care while in transport. Has he gotten better, stronger in the hours since he’d been settled in the infirmary? Or has his condition worsened, the presence of all the proficient healers in the army’s leadership a necessity, rather than the precaution he had hoped it was?

His hand hesitates at the door, unsure if he should try the handle or knock.

Perhaps he should go. It wouldn’t do to disturb the healers at work, especially if any interruption could jeopardize Felix’s condition. The door is closed for a reason.

The door swings open suddenly, and Rodrigue jumps back, pulling his hand back down to his side.

“Oh, Your Grace!” Manuela Casagranda says with a jump, surprised, “You’re here!” she exclaims, stepping out and shutting the door behind her with a wince when she realizes how loud her voice had sounded.

“Ah,” Rodrigue says, with a nod of his head, “Professor Casagranda,” he greets.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Garreg Mach’s famous songstress-physician says, waving embarrassedly, “Just Manuela is fine.”

“...Manuela,” Rodrigue acquiesces. The former songstress looks tired. She’s as well put together as she can be, considering the day’s events, but her eyes are ringed with fatigue, her makeup smudged, her features weighed down with a lamentable sorrow. Rodrigue swallows. “How is...” he stammers, “How is he?”

She gives him a sympathetic look, an encouraging smile, though her brow furrows, “He’s doing much better,” she says encouragingly, “We’re almost out of the woods, I would say. One more night of active management, if all goes well tonight.”

The vice around Rodrigue’s heart unclenches just a fraction. He releases the breath he hadn’t known he’d just held, “Thank you,” he breathes, with a bow, a short bend at the waist, his hand pressed against his sternum, “For all your work. I cannot express how much-”

“Oh, please, Your Grace,” Manuela interrupts, flustered at his gratitude, taking his shoulder and pushing him to stand up straight, “There’s no need. This is my job. I always do what I can for my students.”

Rodrigue hesitates, but straightens, nodding his head. Regardless of the nature of Manuela’s work, how can he not thank her for all she’s done? All the healers who have worked as hard as they can - Rodrigue owes all of them a great debt for the time and effort they’ve put towards ensuring his son’s survival.

“...It’s awful, though, isn’t it?” she says, in the quiet, and Rodrigue looks back at her, snapping out of his thoughts, “All of them fighting each other like this,” she laments, folding her hands together, looking down at the floor, “Gronder really was a terrible battle. So much life... gone just like that.”

“It was,” Rodrigue agrees. He hasn’t thought much on the battle itself, having been so consumed by what happened after, the fraught journey back to Myrddin in the aftermath, but now that she’s mentioned it, he really has no choice but to agree.

He’s fought in countless battles as a knight, as a young heir of his house, as the Duke Fraldarius. The Kingdom is a land founded in war, shaped by battles and skirmishes. Houses are made and unmade in conflict. Lambert’s early reign had been distinguished by his accomplishments in battle, and as such, so had Rodrigue’s reputation as his Shield and right hand. Yet, the battle at Gronder, in this war, is the worst battlefield he’s seen in recent memory.

The carnage and carelessness of the Empire’s use of fire. The opportunistic strike of the Alliance while the Kingdom and Empire were engaged. The relentlessness with which Dimitri led their army to cut down any opposing force in their way. The chaos of three separate armies, clashing all at once in the haze and battle fog, made all the more frantic by the wild rampage of the Empire’s demonic beasts, the magnitude with which lives were lost.

It _was_ awful.

“They’re just all so... young,” Manuela says sadly, bringing a hand up to her eye to dab at the encroaching well of tears, “They shouldn’t be fighting like this. They should all be... living! Doing what they want. There’s so much more to life than just... fighting. Life has barely begun for them. And for those of them who’ve died...” she trails off with a sorrowful sigh, shaking her head.

Rodrigue swallows. They are all so young, aren’t they? Where did all the warriors of his generation go? When did the soldiers spurring these armies forth, the generals leading the heart of their forces... when did their children take up these roles? When did they grow so comfortable with death, with dying, with playing their parts in the war?

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Manuela says with a huff, dabbing at her eyes with her dirty sleeves, “You don’t want to listen to me ramble on,” she says with a wave of her hand, gesturing at the door, “You can go see him. Flayn’s inside for second watch tonight.”

“Right,” Rodrigue replies awkwardly, placing a stiff hand on the door handle, “Of course. Please...” he nods at the professor, “Get some rest, Manuela.”

Manuela nods with a small curtsy and turns, walking off with a hand still at her face, swiping at her eyes.

Rodrigue takes a breath and faces the door. He steadies himself, knocks gently as a courtesy, turns the handle, and pushes open the door.

It’s dark, in the infirmary. Two lamps are lit, to illuminate the space, but the light is dim, casting a gentle warm firelit glow on the far bed and the space around it. In the bed lies his son. In one of the three chairs next to him is the young Flayn, her hand pressed against his side, her palm aglow with healing magic.

“Oh...!” she exclaims quietly, casting a careful look to the bed to the side, “Hello, Duke Fraldarius,” she greets quietly, her voice just slightly louder than a whisper.

Rodrigue follows her gaze. In the bed to the side rests Mercedes von Martritz, tucked under the covers, breathing quietly, deep in sleep. A well-deserved rest being taken. He should do his utmost not to disturb her. It would be a terrible way for him to thank her for all the work she’s done to save his son’s life. He nods at Flayn, slipping into the room, closing the door gently behind him.

“Miss Flayn,” he greets in a low voice, walking with careful soundless steps to her side.

He looks down at the bed.

In the dim light, it’s hard to tell how Felix looks. The lamplight barely illuminates his face, but he looks pale, still. They’ve taken down his hair, pulled the pins from his updo to allow his matted locks to pool on the infirmary pillow. It makes him look relaxed, all the more so with his features slack in unconsciousness. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or in pain. Rodrigue is grateful for that, at least.

He’s too still, lying there on his back. All his life his son has never sat still, even when he slept in his bed, he curled up under the covers, twitched as he dreamed, was prone to twisting in his sheets, unconsciously seeking a comfortable position he never seemed to find. Like this, flat on his back, breathing quietly in the dark, it’s unnatural. It’s not right.

Rodrigue takes a shaky breath, his hand reaching out, his fingers pressing gently against Felix’s limp wrist.

There, under his fingers: a pulse. It’s faint, barely palpable; too fast for true rest, too slow to indicate acute concern, but it’s steady. He can feel the thrum of magic within the beat, holding it steady, continuous. Flayn’s magic a gentle guide underneath.

_He’s alive._

Rodrigue exhales, trying to calm his quaking heart. _He’s okay._

“Please,” Flayn says, catching his attention, standing to switch chairs, shifting her healing hand from Felix’s side to his thigh, gently nudging a chair over to him, “Take a seat.”

Rodrigue hesitates, then shakes his head, his fingers curling around Felix’s wrist, “I won’t be long,” he says. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, “I... wouldn’t want to get in your way-”

“Oh, no worries, please I insist!” Flayn says hurriedly, patting the chair with her free hand until Rodrigue relents, folding into the seat slowly, hesitantly, “Stay as long as you’d like! Where I am doesn’t matter, I just need any contact with Felix at all.”

He glances at her hand. Her palm is still alight, washed with the green of healing, pressed now against Felix’s thigh over the blanket. “...Thank you,” Rodrigue says faintly.

She smiles gently in response. She looks so young, Seteth’s sister, but her movements are practiced, her ease with her healing betraying years of experience. Even her smile speaks to something beyond what she ought to know with how it puts him at ease, as if she’s assured everything will be all right. It’s comforting.

Rodrigue looks away. Felix is half tucked under the covers, the blankets pulled as high as his waist. They’ve removed his upper layers to bare his chest, his clothes and his boots with the dirty gaiters placed in the corner of the room. His flanks are bruised, dark stains of purple curving round his sides just below his ribs. The scar the sword left behind is innocuous, for how much damage that had been done, how much blood had been lost. Rodrigue can’t know how much damage there was below, but the scar left on the skin is barely noticeable in the dim light - a thin line of white bleeding into a faint irritated red around it, half a palm’s width below the jut of Felix’s lowest left rib, as long as the width of the blade. He opens his mouth to ask, “How is...” he trails off, uncertain of how to ask.

“Oh, Felix is doing much better!” Flayn says with a firm nod. When Rodrigue tilts his head, waiting for her to elaborate, she hesitates, her smile catching before she glances to the side, “I would not wish to burden you with all the details-”

“Please,” Rodrigue interrupts, “If you wouldn’t mind, Miss Flayn. I...” he trails off, his fingers brushing Felix’s palm - oh Goddess, his hand is cold, is that alright? - “I would like to know.”

Flayn swallows, but nods, looking over at Felix’s silent, unconscious form, flexing the fingers of her healing hand unconsciously, “...It is mostly precautionary, what we’re doing,” she murmurs, “Felix... lost a lot of blood at Gronder. The elixirs are limited by what we have and how much we could encourage him to swallow, so...” she glances to the side table, at the mess of uncorked bottles, some half filled, others empty, and the rest damningly full, “It’s been necessary to provide white magic to... make up for what he’s missing and keep him stable, so we can stop further damage from happening.”

Rodrigue brings a hand up to his mouth, resting his elbow on the bed. With the hand he still has around his son’s wrist, he presses against his pulse again, just to feel it, to reassure himself it’s still there.

“He’s... I will admit he’s in a fragile state,” Flayn says reluctantly, as if she doesn’t want to explain, knowing it would burden Rodrigue so, “Where he was stabbed... the wound opened the wall of the gut. Infection is inevitable, and with how deep the blade went... it will very likely spread through his blood. We’re delaying that as much as we can, containing the infection until he’s recovered enough that his body might weather it.”

Rodrigue nods. He’s seen gut wounds before. He is no specialist in the art of healing, despite knowing how to cast such spells, but he knows how difficult such injuries can be to manage. Even after the wound is healed, the greatest fear is the period after, when the body has to endure the infection which often occurs, and is nearly always devastating in its severity.

White magic can do wonders for trauma and injury, to repair sudden damage. But for infection... it can do little but alleviate the symptoms, contain and delay the inevitable. For all the advances the Church has spearheaded in white magic and medicine, it wasn’t them who managed to cure or prevent the plague.

Flayn gives a quiet unhappy sigh, “Felix would likely do alright without us if he were just recovering from the blood loss or fighting the infection, but both at once...”

Rodrigue closes his eyes, “...I see,” he says, quietly, accepting the information he’s been told, the newfound understanding of Felix’s delicate condition.

Gilbert was right to tell him to come. He almost avoided it. Now he knows that if he had, he truly would have risked missing whatever chance he had.

“We’re doing our best, Duke Fraldarius,” Flayn says, spurred by his pain, his worry, his sorrow, trying her best to encourage him, “Felix is a very strong person. He’ll make it, I’m sure of it.”

She sounds so self-assured. But she’s so young. Seteth had sheltered her, at the monastery. Her naivete is obvious in her sincerity. Her optimism is cheering, but it can only do so much in the face of Rodrigue’s past experience, his practical mind.

“...Thank you,” he says, managing a weak smile, “I... I truly do appreciate all you’re doing. Felix is...” he takes a breath, swallowing back the shudder on the tail of it.

Flayn waits patiently, her eyes wide, reflecting the flicker of the lamplight.

“He’s all I have left,” Rodrigue rasps, pushing the words past the lump in his throat.

He’s outlived his wife and one son already. He doesn’t want to outlive this one too.

“I understand,” Flayn murmurs, sounding older than her years, “I know what it is like. You must be very worried.”

Rodrigue huffs. An understatement if he’s ever heard one. “...I am,” he confirms, “I...” he trails off, finding it difficult to speak, suddenly, overwhelmed by the burn of his eyes, the shudder of his heart, the choking mass in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he manages, turning away trying to spare her the sight of his tears, “I just...”

Flayn reaches out, pressing her free hand to his shoulder, patting his arm, “Take the time you need,” she says, with a sad smile, “I’m sure Felix would appreciate that you are here.”

Rodrigue manages a wan smile. He’s sure Felix would appreciate the company of some others far more than he would that of his father, but he supposes there would be little value in belabouring the point.

With that, Flayn seems content to sit back and allow Rodrigue his time with his son, focusing instead on her healing hand, humming a soft tune under her breath, taking care to be quiet so as not to bother the other occupants in the room.

In the lull of conversation, Rodrigue turns back to look properly at Felix, raising a hand and reaching to brush Felix’s choppy bangs out of his closed eyes.

He doesn’t so much as stir.

So swiftly, Felix had moved, he couldn’t have entertained any second thoughts at Gronder before he intercepted the blow meant for His Highness. And yet, in the moons leading up to that point, the years, even, before it, Felix had been nothing but second thoughts.

Glenn had been a knight through and through. To protect the King and the royal line at all cost was a duty he lived by. In this scenario, there would have been no doubt: he would have leapt to protect His Highness without a second thought. Glenn likely had done exactly that, in Duscur, all those years ago. Rodrigue understood that.

But Felix...

Rodrigue doesn’t know _why_ Felix did what he did. His doubts with the chivalric code aside, Felix had long shown an unexplained grudge against Dimitri himself. In the years after the Western Rebellion, he refused to have anything to do with him. Since this campaign started, moon after moon, he sniped at His Highness, called him a beast, criticized every decision the prince made. And still he’d leapt forth so quickly to shield him with his body.

 _“You must be proud,”_ Gilbert had said.

Perhaps he had been, but the feeling hadn’t lasted longer than the brief moment between Felix’s strike against the assailant and when he fell. In the hours since, pride has been the least of the feelings Rodrigue has had about his son. All he can recall feeling is worry, anxiety, fear.

Whatever’s left in the mess of his emotions can only be described as confusion.

How proud can he truly be of his son’s actions if he doesn’t know why he was driven to carry out such an act?

Perhaps Rodrigue’s greatest shame as a father is that he finds it so difficult to understand his youngest at all.

That’s his own fault. There had been opportunity to ask. Felix was an obstinate teen, and grew into a dour and combative man, but he was still his son. They were capable of civil conversation. Certainly, as the years passed, Rodrigue could have taken the time to enquire after Felix’s motivations, rather than just scold him for living the way he did.

There just... never seemed to be a good time. With Felix being as stubborn as he was, any broaching of the topic would have been a long and involved conversation. The Kingdom was falling into disrepair, with no proper king to lead it. Dimitri needed guidance in Fhirdiad. Rufus wasn’t doing his work as regent and Rodrigue had to step in. Fraldarius was coming apart at the seams, with bandits growing ever more in number. In between all his running around, finding time to speak with a son who didn’t want to speak with him at all, but who made no trouble and did what needed doing albeit with loud and verbal reluctance, hadn’t seemed something that imminently needed addressing.

Even after the war started, it was simply easier to... coexist. Whatever reasons Felix had for fighting for Faerghus as hard as he did, Rodrigue chose not to discuss. He and his son were fighting for the same cause. By that point, so many years had gone by with a strained distance between them, it seemed harder to open scarred wounds than simply live with them. He and Felix were on the same side. Whatever Felix’s reasons for fighting, for searching for Dimitri, their goals were the same. That was enough.

Now he wishes he had taken the time to find out, after all.

How hard could it have been, to take a single afternoon to sit down and ask Felix to talk?

Surely it couldn’t have been so insurmountable of a task?

He turns his hand, resting his palm on Felix’s brow.

It’s dry. Not warm with fever. Whatever Flayn is doing to keep the inevitable infection at bay must be working, for now.

“Do you know white magic, Duke Fraldarius?” she asks suddenly, and Rodrigue suppresses the jerk of surprise at being addressed. He turns to meet her gaze and finds her watching, eyes wide and inquisitive.

“...I do...” he manages, looking down, pulling his hand back from Felix’s brow, taking care to keep his messy bangs from falling into his face, “But, I’m afraid I’m no healer,” he says, with a shake of his head, “My spells were learned for battle. The intricacies of the art are lost on me.”

“If you would like...” Flayn ventures with an encouraging smile, “You can cast for Felix as well.”

Rodrigue swallows, his fingers flexing unconsciously at the sudden echo of numbness in his palms. “Oh, I shouldn’t,” he says quickly, “I don’t want to... interfere with what you’re doing. It’s best if I don’t.”

He doesn’t feel ready to cast again. He’s managed two spells since the debacle at Gronder, but he remembers all too well his failure when it was needed most. Sylvain’s words still echo cruelly in the back of his mind.

He’s failed to heal Felix once already.

If he fails again, even in a much less dire context, what does it say about him as a holy knight? What does it mean for him as a father?

He clasps his hands together, resting them on his lap.

He’s not ready to find out.

“Oh, a regular spell would be fine!” Flayn exclaims, in quiet tones, “I’m doing the difficult part, after all! Any extra bit of white magic won’t hurt. The body knows where the magic is needed.”

Rodrigue looks at her palm, still glowing steadily with her magic. He turns away again, looking at Felix, lying as still as a corpse.

“I think it might help,” she says, gently, encouraging, “Not just Felix, but you as well.” Her expression is gentle, her smile warm.

Rodrigue swallows. If it would help Felix in any small way, shouldn’t he try? He’s his father, is he not? If he has the ability... would it not be worse if he didn’t try?

Isn’t his lack of trying part of the reason he feels so distant from his son, despite all the years they’ve lived under the same roof? Isn’t his reluctance to attempt to reach out the reason he cannot understand Felix’s motivations?

Flayn is right. Perhaps this would help.

Rodrigue takes a steadying breath, reaching out, placing his palm on Felix’s abdomen, over his newest scar, the ugly straight line showing the latest, dangerous attempt to end his life. He closes his eyes, and draws on his faith.

The _Heal_ is a familiar spell - the first he learned when he took up white magic. The sigil is an old friend, the glyphs a well-worn formula. His last two spells were faltering, despite doing what they were meant to do, managing only because that which he was treating was small. This feels almost like something he’s capable of.

If he had managed this at Gronder, perhaps Felix wouldn’t have been in such dire straits after he took the blow for His Highness. If he weren’t so useless when his son needed him, maybe Felix wouldn’t now lay, teetering on the edge of a precipice, at risk of dying for a reason Rodrigue has yet to puzzle out-

His concentration breaks. The spell fizzles out, his cast wasted again, and he clenches his hand into a fist, untethering the rest of what energies he’s gathered in his palm. He exhales in a rush, a harsh noise of upset, opening his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice only wavering slightly as he stares straight ahead at a smoothed notch in Felix’s collarbone - an old wound long healed, “I don’t think I should, after all.”

Flayn looks back at him sadly. There is no judgement in her gaze, only sorrow. Pity. “He’ll be okay, Your Grace,” she murmurs.

Rodrigue wants desperately to believe her.

“...I should go,” he says quickly and stands, pushing his chair back as he rises, turning to leave.

“Oh no, wait!” Flayn whisper-shouts, reaching for him, but unable to chase, tethered as she is by her healing hand on Felix’s thigh.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” Rodrigue says, blinking rapidly as he strides with quick, quiet steps towards the infirmary’s double doors.

“Oh, please, Duke Fraldarius,” Flayn implores, casting a quick glance towards Mercedes’ slumbering form, before looking back at Rodrigue, eyes opened wide, reflecting the lamplight in her pleading gaze, “It’s lonely, for Felix to undergo treatment like this. I’m sure he would want you to stay, at least until we march again. There’s no harm, I swear it!”

Rodrigue pauses at the door. He turns back, his hand tight on the handle, to suppress the shake of his hand, “...I thank you, Miss Flayn,” he says with a nod, “Truly. Thank you for your work caring for my son. I wish you well on the march tomorrow.”

“Duke Fraldarius!” Flayn calls after him, but he doesn’t wait. With a twist of his wrist, he opens the door and walks out, shutting it swiftly but quietly behind him.

Once outside, he takes a deep breath, holds it for seven beats of his weak and heavy heart, and exhales. Then he lets go of the handle, turning around to face the door, backing away until he can feel the wall of the corridor behind him. He leans against the wall, tipping his head back to rest against the stone, and closes his eyes.

Once again, a failed cast.

There must be something wrong with him. A sickness of his heart, a poisoning of his mind. His faith has never failed him in such a way before. Once is a fluke. Twice is a step towards a pattern. Both times, for his son, he was incapable of completing a simple healing spell.

He’s always worried he had been failing Felix as a father.

Perhaps this is simply proof of that, and that the fault truly lies with him alone.

“Rodrigue?” someone asks, nearby.

Rodrigue jerks away from the wall, taking a loud breath through his nose, turning to face them.

To his side, a small way away down the corridor, stands Dimitri, looking inquisitively back at him. The Prince looks tired, his shoulder slumped, weighed down by fatigue, his visible eye is dull, but focused. Areadbhar is still held in his hands, the great head of the relic tilted towards the ground.

A wave of uncertainty, an unidentified emotion, passes through Rodrigue’s mind, settles like a rock in his churning gut. Dimitri’s gaze moves to the infirmary door, then back to his face: a silent question.

Did the Prince intend to come to the infirmary or has his wandering brought him here unbidden? Is he here to see Felix? See the damage for himself, what consequences his actions have reaped? Or he is simply wandering aimlessly, unable to sleep, letting his feet take him where they may?

Rodrigue swallows. Staring back at His Highness, his mind draws a blank. For the first time in his memory, perhaps even years beyond that, he cannot think of a single thing to say to the prince. His mind is a mess of uncertain feelings, incomplete ideas, half-formed impressions of thoughts. His gut churns. His hands shake.

He can’t be here. Whatever questions Dimitri might have for him, he’s not prepared to answer. He hardly knows anything about Felix’s condition himself, knows even less about why Felix put himself in this situation at all.

He needs to leave. There’s a long march tomorrow. Any amount of rest is better than none.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue says back, with a stiff nod. His gaze drops quickly to the floor between them as soon as Dimitri opens his mouth. Whatever the prince wants to say is never voiced - it seems he, too, is at a loss of what to say, what words are appropriate between them.

Rodrigue doesn’t linger.

He moves quickly, spurred suddenly by a desperate desire to leave, to be alone. The prince does nothing but stand and watch as he leaves. He takes swift strides, passing by him as he heads for the stairs, towards the private rooms the army has reserved for its highest-ranking generals.

If Dimitri watches him as he goes, Rodrigue doesn’t know.

He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🤔 im gonna get that neuron to fire if it's the last thing I do
> 
> gonna be a bit of a wait before the next chapter, i just happened to slam dunk the first two. good news is i have the outline down, and i know all the story beats, it's just a lot to... fill.... OTL

**Author's Note:**

> rodrigue achille fraldarius was /this/ close to having his neurons fire in AM like he was SELF-AWARE and just needed a SMALL push and azure moon plot went “aight” and then pushed him so hard with a SWORD it severed his abdominal aorta and he died in thirty seconds of acute blood loss so i wrote this to cope with his lost potential and so i could work through my abundance of repressed rage over having to deal with prime piece of shit Gilbert instead
> 
> i’m on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/redequilibrium) if you wanna yell at me or if you wanna see me fly into an incoherent rage about how fucked up the kingdom of faerghus is every four months like clockwork lol
> 
> and sometimes there’s art there idk depends on my schedule


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